"It's that hound Collins," he muttered, as he propped the wounded
man's head on his arm. "By God, I didn't think it of Val."
Leroy opened his eyes and smiled faintly. "Guess again, York."
"You don't mean "
He nodded. "Right this time--Hardman and Chaves and Reilly. They
shot to get us both. With us out of the way they could divide the
treasure between them."
Neil choked. "You ain't bad hurt, old man. Say you ain't bad
hurt, Phil."
"More than I can carry, York; shot through and through. I've been
doubtful of Reilly for a long time;"
"By the Lord, if I don't get the rattlesnake for this!" swore
Neil between his teeth. "Ain't there nothin' I can do for you,
old pardner?"
In sharp succession four shots rang out. Neil grasped his rifle,
leaning forward and crouching for cover. He turned a puzzled face
toward Leroy. "I don't savvy. They ain't shooting at us."
"The sheriff," explained Leroy. "They forgot him, and he doubled
back on them."
"I'll bet Val got one of them," cried Neil, his face lighting.
"He's got one--or he's quit living. That's a sure thing. Why
don't you circle up on them from behind, York?"
"I hate to leave you, cap--and you so bad.
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