“Say, Buck, old chap, can I help?” Buck’s eyes were closed, and he did not seem to hear. The sunlight glowed on the scarlet serge of his jacket, the glittering buttons, the bright accoutrements, as he lay with his buffalo coat spread wide upon the snow. Only his face was in shadow. “Buck, old man!” His eyes opened, his right hand moved out, his fingers plucking at la Mancha’s sleeve, then very slowly his left hand groped at the breast of his jacket, and drew out a paper until it caught between the buttons. La Mancha saw that Buck’s lips were moving now, and bending down he heard a broken whisper, “Take this—tell her—tell her—” The clay-white face relaxed, and the Blackguard saw a bluish shadow come up like rising water over it, over the glazing eyes. Then the lips parted. He wrenched the letter from the clutch of a dead hand, which slid away down the breast of the scarlet jacket, and dropped to the ground. It was the shattering blow of a bullet in the sleigh box above his head which roused la Mancha to turn and fight again. Hitherto he had merely disliked those men behind the snowdrifts, but now he wanted to skin, and burn a few of them slowly, and prayed to the saints that each bullet should inflict a painful and mortal wound, followed by a disagreeable hereafter. Then he heard footsteps in the creaking snow, and knew that the troop surgeon had found the corpse beside him. He heard the doctor whisper: “Buck? Poor Buck!” When la Mancha looked round again Dr. Miller was gone and a red-haired trooper was busy stripping the ammunition from the dead man’s belt. “Down, fool,” said the Blackguard; “that scalp of yours draws fire—you ruddy oot.” Red lay down on the edge of the dead man’s coat, and threw his feet across the Blackguard’s legs lest the snow should wet them. Then he grunted with content. “Happy?” asked the Blackguard. “’Ungry—gimme blood! Look there!” Red jerked his thumb backwards over his shoulder and showed his chum how one of the officers, Inspector Sarde, lay near them. Sarde was hiding behind the next sleigh on the left, making an abject display of cowardice. “The lantern-jawed, swivel-eyed, white-livered, scarehead, misbegotten, jumped up son of a dog’s wife,” was the Blackguard’s comment. “I kicked ’im,” Red grinned in ferocious joy, “cruel ’ard, too.” “Red, help me to clear that bluff in front there; sight at one hundred yards, and fire low.” “Low it is.” Red settled himself to work, fired, and pumped a cartridge while he watched results. “What makes you sing, eh, Blackguard? I’m in a funk, I am—” he fired again. “Was I singing?” La Mancha let drive at a smoke puff. “I bagged a buck Indian just now—aim low—got ’im. “Carry him reverently, gently, slow— Pace by the trunnions with patient tread; Over the drifts of the rolling snow, With arms reversed for the Dead.” “Nice and cheerful, ain’t yer!” cried Red sarcastically, but la Mancha enjoyed himself.