whom he pushed aside with his pistol.
"I ought to kill you, for poor old Kate," Findlay said slowly, a peculiar dragging softness in his voice, "but the worst thing I can wish you is to live."
Findlay looked with quick turning of the head, like a watchful eagle, into Alma's face, holding her eyes a moment with his compelling glance so long accustomed to beating down the wills of men.
"For pity's sake, Dale, let him die in peace!" Mrs. Nearing pleaded, putting out her hands in supplication, no more tears, it seemed, left in the fount of her misery to soften his unfeeling heart.
"You women cussed me out for a thief and a murderer a little while ago," Findlay said, looking earnestly into Alma's face, "and you stand here begging a chance for this man to die in honor and peace. When I leave here I'll go with a pack of men after me, with a long chance against me of swingin' somewhere on a cow-rope, but before I go I want to tell you something, Alma, and leave you to judge between that man and me."
Nearing lay gazing with bulging eyes already glazing over with the misty film of death. His breath came panting in him like a lizard's; one hand clenched the covers as if he held there in his painful desperation upon the margin of life, and only waited Findlay's last word to loose his hold and plunge into the abyss which the soul must cleave like a meteor in its hour, and wake on mortal ears no sound of its passing.
"Whatever he says will be a lie, Alma, out of his black, murderous heart!" Mrs. Nearing declared in
