that two men were dying and he could not tell how much of this was wrong and how much was right—or for how large a part of it he himself would be held accountable. Men sometimes reasoned queerly. Flash kept out of sight.
Moran found Betty kneeling on the trail.
“Where’s the other one?—quick!” he said.
“Up there,” she answered, pointing up the slope. “But he is dead. Don’t go. I want you here to help me with my father.”
Moran knelt beside her and started to unbutton the flannel shirt.
“I’ll do all I can,” he said.
The other man opened his eyes and shook his head.
“Too late, son,” he said. “It’s just as well this way. Look after her. Keep her away from Nash.” He smiled at Betty and closed his eyes. Out in the timber Flash howled—not his usual note but a mournful dog howl which had never before sounded from his throat.
Moran sprang suddenly to his feet as a voice spoke from among the logs a few feet up the slope.
“I wonder how it happens that a dog always knows when someone cashes in,” it said.
Moran found Harte sprawled behind the log.
