“Oh, but you have,” said Buffalo Bill, as he brought his revolver nearer the head of his victim. “You have a whole lot to say. You are going to tell me all about your game. You are going deep into details. You are going to tell me how Jared Holmes was killed, by your orders, in Taos, and how you afterward killed the slayer when you had no further use for his services. You are going to do a whole lot of talk, and you are going to begin right now. One, two, three——” “All right”—the words were jerked out—“I’ll talk. Curse, you! I wish I had killed you when I first caught sight of your face.” Buffalo Bill shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “You were a fool, and no mistake. But as I am the winner by your bad break, I’ll not raise a kick. Now, what is your true name?” “Rixton Holmes.” “Myra Wilton is your cousin, is she not?” “Yes.” “What is this fortune you are scheming to get?” “It’s a mine in Colorado.” “Who owned it?” “My uncle, Peter Holmes.” “Brother of Jared and Matt, and the mother of Myra, eh?” “Yes”—surlily. “When did Peter die?” “Last month.” “How?” “How? Why”—he hesitated, and then said with lowered head—“some one killed him while he was down in the mine inspecting a new lead.” “Ah, I see. You began with Peter and finished with Matt.” There was disgust and repulsion on the scout’s honest face. “I’ll never say I killed him,” returned Rixton Holmes defiantly. “The mystery of his death will never be cleared up.” “There you’re wrong,” was the cool response. “The mystery has been cleared up. But it won’t be necessary to try you for the crime. When the court gets through with you for your other offenses, there won’t be anything left of you for further trial.” Rixton Holmes shivered, then suddenly straightened up and looked resolutely at the king of scouts. “I am ready to die now,” he said, as he tried to steady his voice. “I have got through talking. Kill me. I don’t care.” Buffalo Bill appeared to consider the matter. “Why not?” he said. “In these wilds I can be judge, jury, and executioner, and no one would blame me. It is the safe thing to do.” He tightened his grip on his pistols. The victim stiffened, expecting a report to come. But neither trigger was pressed. “But,” the scout went on, “there is the poetic side of the case to consider. If I were to kill you now, your suffering wouldn’t amount to a hill of beans. You ought to suffer agonies; and, by the crawling catamount, you shall. I’ll take you to Taos, and there you shall stay in jail until the scaffold is ready for you to drop from. You shall hear the carpenters as they hammer the thing into shape. Every nail driven will be a nail in your coffin. Yes, to Taos you go.” The speaker rose to his feet. “I am not in the best of condition,” he continued, “and, therefore, I must ask you to assist me a little. Here are some rawhides”—tossing them. “Please tie your wrists for me. I think I will be able to do the rest.”