“No luck” he muttered thickly, “no luck,” and reeled toward the eating-house. A fifth bullet scored his shoulder and crashed through the wall; the sixth--and last--was a clean miss, and in the middle of San Pasqual's single street Borax O'Rourke stood wonderingly, an empty smoking gun in his hand, staring at the man reeling blindly along the eating-house wall. Mr. Hennage paused with his broad back against the wall. “The sand” he muttered, blinking, and brushed his eyes with the back of his good right hand, as Sam Singer made a quick scuttering rush around the corner and retrieved the loaded gun which the gambler had taken from him and which Harley P. had dropped when O'Rourke's second bullet had shattered his left arm. Mr. Hennage saw the Indian stooping, and flapped his broken arm in feeble protest. Then he raised his gun. “Borax” he said aloud, “I've got a full house,” and pulled away, O'Rourke pitched forward, and Harley P. advanced uncertainly toward him, firing as he came, and when the gun was empty and Borax O'Rourke as dead as Cheops, the gambler stood over his man and hurled the gun at the still twitching body. “Well, I've canceled that entry” he said. He stood there, swaying a little, and a strong arm came around his fat waist. He half turned and gazed into the sun-scorched, red-bearded face of a tall young man clad in a ruin of weather-beaten rags. It was Bob McGraw. He had come back. Sam Singer, reaching Mr. Hennage's side at that moment, recognized the stranger, and realizing that Mr. Hennage was in safe hands, the Indian dropped his gun (the one he had taken from O'Rourke at the Hat Ranch) and fled to Donna with the news. Mr. Hennage fixed his fading glance upon the wanderer. He wanted to say something severe, but for the life of him--even the little he had left--he could not; there was a puzzled look in his sand-clogged eyes as he whispered. “Bob, they've got the goods--on you. There's a warrant--out; you--know--that stage hold-up--at Garlock--” He lurched forward into Bob McGraw's arms. “Oh, Harley, Harley, old man” said Bob McGraw in a choking voice. “Vamose” panted Mr. Hennage. “I'm dyin', son. You can't do no good here.” “My friend, my friend” whispered the wanderer, “don't die believing I'm an outlaw. I didn't do it. On my word of honor, I didn't.” “I'm dyin', Bob. Give me the straight of it.” “I can't. I don't know what you're driving at, Harley. It's a mistake--” “Everything's a mistake--I'm a mistake” muttered the gambler. “Son, take me--to my--room--in the hotel. I'm a dog with a bad--name, but I--don't want to--die in--the street.”