Hank Seymour, as he elbowed his way from the center of the circle.
"Then who in thunder is it?" asked one who was using his best efforts to get a sight of the champion.
"Well I'm danged ef that ar woman don't turn out to be Jim Wilkinham, who lives over on t' other side of the hill," said Gabe Husker, whose curiosity appeared to have been satisfied. "Jim has been playing roots on the boys, and is a thousand dollars better off fur havin' done so. But dog me ef I don't think the race ought to be run over agin. I wouldn't stand being cheated that way ef I was one of 'em."
At this moment fierce, angry words were heard within the circle. Several persons appeared to be taking part in the dispute, and again the crowd pressed forward to see what was the matter. Suddenly the sharp report of a pistol rang out, and the crowd which had formed the circle fled pell-mell. Turning quickly, Husker saw that a murder had been committed. The winner of the purse was lying motionless upon the snow, while the blood, pouring in a stream from a wound in his bosom, was rapidly crimsoning the ground. The bullet had passed through his heart, and death had been instantaneous. A few feet distant stood Chadwick, coolly returning his revolver to its resting-place in the scabbard which hung over his hip.
"What in hell have yer been a doing?" yelled Husker as he jumped toward the murderer.
"Bin a givin' a dern skunk his deserts. No dang dead-beat can ever git any of my money by such a
