The voice was one of entreaty, and Crandall returned and seated himself in the snow by the man’s side. The sun had gone down, and the twilight had come on, bringing with it the chill of night. Crandall covered the wounded man’s body with his overcoat, and raised his head from the snow. Almost unconsciously he noted that as the patch of red made by the blood grew larger and larger, the face of the wounded man grew whiter and whiter. He never took his eyes from Crandall’s face, while his breath came quicker and shorter, as if he breathed with labor. With each breath the blood seemed to bubble from the wound in the breast. One of the man’s hands fell from under the coat that covered him. As Crandall raised it from the snow, its coldness sent a chill through him. Once he had asked the wounded man if he could do anything for him; but the man had only shaken his head in reply. Crandall felt like reviling himself for what he had done, and wondered why the wounded man did not reproach him. Even when he expressed his sorrow at having shot him, the dying man had said, gently: “Don’t mind it. It’s too late now.” The twilight gave way to darkness, and still he sat there. He could not hear the dying man breathe without leaning over his face. He did not do this but once, though, and then the dying man had opened his eyes and looked up into his face, inquiringly. Crandall would rather have stayed there until morning than to have caught that look again. Suddenly he heard a voice call to him. He started as if he had been fired at, but it was only Lansing. As he answered the call, Lansing rode forward and, seeing the outstretched form on the snow, said: “By God, you got him!” “Hush!” replied Crandall, fearful lest the wounded man would hear the exulting tone which grated on his own ears as nothing had ever before done. But not minding the admonition, Lansing dismounted, and striking a match held it close to the man’s face. It was pale and cold, and the half-opened eyes were glazed. They did not even reflect the light made from the match, but from the partly opened mouth a tiny stream of half-congealed blood seemed to be still flowing down over the beard. “That’s him, and it’s a pretty good day’s work we have done by earning that reward,” said Lansing, coolly, as the match went out. Somehow, though, as Crandall lay awake through the night, within a few yards of the body, to keep the wolves from it so that it would be unmarred in the morning when they would lash it to a horse and take it into the settlements for identification, he wondered why Lansing could sleep so soundly. As for himself, the rigid form, covered with only a saddle-blanket, lying where the snow was red instead of white, was always before his eyes, even when he closed them. CONSCIENCE MONEY By Geraldine Bonner