“Boys,” said Old Pegs, “they’ve got her, de’d or alive, and we’ve got to find out which—to resker her ef she’s alive and to revenge her ef she’s dead. Duz thet kind ov tork please you?” The men did not speak, but he read in their eyes that they would be with him to the death. He beckoned them to follow, and entered the cabin, tearing down the curtain which concealed the recess in which Myrtle had slept. He caught hold of the bed and gave it a swing, and, turning as if upon a pivot it showed the opening and the steps leading downward. “Two or three of you come with me,” said Old Pegs. “I don’t want too many; they’ll spile the trail.” They ran down the steps and entered the little passage which led to the cave. The place was dark, but Old Pegs took a taper from the wall and lighted it. “I called her and she didn’t answer so I didn’t stay to light up,” he said. “Let’s see what all this amounts to.” The moment the taper was lighted the men uttered cries of surprise, for there, close against the wall, lay the man called Velveteens, bathed in blood. “I’ll bet a thousand dollars the gal killed him,” cried Old Pegs, as he turned the villain over on his back. “Thar’s the mark of her bullet, but—thunder! He’s got a knife in his breast.” It was true. A long knife had pierced the bosom of Velveteens, just above the collar-bone, and slanting downward. The hand which planted that knife knew how to direct a fatal blow. The rifle-ball had pierced him through the neck but such a wound was not necessarily fatal, and the knife had finished the bloody work. “The gal never done that,” said one of the men. “Seems ter me thar’s life in the low cuss, old man.” “Giv’ us yer flask, then. Whisky’ll bring this critter out of his grave a’most. He don’t desarve it but I want ter question him a bit before he goes under.” The man handed over the flask, and Old Pegs bathed the lips of the wounded wretch with the strong liquor, and raising his head managed to get a little down his throat. A moment after he gave a gasp and his eyes flared open, gazing with a wild look upon the faces bent above him. “Whar am I?” he gasped. “Oh, I know now; I’ve got my gruel.” “You ain’t got long ter live, Velveteens,” said Old Pegs, “and yer mout ez well make a clean breast of it.” “I’ll tell,” he muttered. “Give me some more whisky—I want strength.” A few mouthfuls of the fiery liquor gave him life and he spoke more freely. “Rafe Norris hez got her, curse him!” “Whar is he?” “Up among the foot-hills—by the Spirit Spring.” “Ho; thet’s it, eh? Did the gal do this?” “She shot me,” gasped the dying man, “and Rafe—thought I’d die—and stabbed—me—the dog—let him die—a dog’s—death! Curse him, dead or alive!” As he spoke he caught the knife by the handle and drew it from the wound. A great gush of black blood followed, and Velveteens, the henchman of Rafe Norris who had done his evil work for many a year was dead.