"Oh! That’s what I’d do?" said Apache Kid, and stood cheeping with his lips a little space and staring before him. Then turning to me, "I ’m up against it now," he said, "in the language of the country. The terms are all being made for me and at this rate——" he swung round again to these two—"you really mean that you are so bent on this that if I did n’t speak up, did n’t give you the information you wanted, you’d—eh—kill me—kill the goose with the golden eggs?" I marked a change in the tone of Apache’s voice, and looking at him noticed that there was a glitter in his eye and his breath was coming through his nostrils in fierce gusts, and under his breath he muttered: "The damned fools! I could keep them blithering here till morning!" "We might find other means to get the right of it out of you," said the man with the Winchester. "I ’ve seen a bit of the Indians from whom you take your name, and I reckon some of their tricks would bring you to reason." "What!" cried Apache Kid. "You’d threaten that, would you? You’d insult me—coming out with a hog like that to hold me up, too," and he pointed at the man with the revolver. "Come! Come!" cried he of the Winchester, "easy wi’ that hand. If you don’t come to a decision before I count three, you ’re a dead man. I ’ll run chances on finding the Lost Cabin Mine myself. Come now, what are you going to do? One——" "Excuse me interrupting," said Apache Kid, "but are you aware that the gentleman you have brought with you there is an incompetent?" "Haow?" said the Winchester man. "What you mean?" "That!" said Apache Kid, and, leaping back and wheeling his horse between the Winchester and himself, he had plucked forth his revolver and— But another crack—the crack of a rifle—rang out in the forest. I am not certain which was first, but there, before my eyes, the two men, who had a moment earlier stood exulting over us, sank to the earth, he with the revolver falling second, so that as he sagged down I heard the breath of life, one might have thought, belch out of him. It was really the gasp, I suppose, when the bullet struck him, but it was the most helpless sound I ever heard in my life—something like the quack of a duck. Sorry am I that ever I heard that sound, for it, I believe, more than the occurrence of that night itself, seemed to sadden me, give me a drearier outlook on life. I wonder if I express myself clearly? I wonder if you understand what I felt in my heart at that sound? Had he died with a scream, I think I should have been less haunted by his end.