“My friend, I’m hurt to the death. Shot in the back by the Mexican who wronged my sister. I played fox until he had gone. I’m going over the range fast--fast, pardner, and the night is coming on. I can hardly see.” “Poor man! kan I do anydings for you?” “Nothin’, pardner; only look in my side-pocket--there’s an old paper there. Can you find it?” Morris put his hand into the pocket designated, and drew therefrom a folded paper, saying: “Is it here? Is dis it?” “That’s yours, pardner. If it ever amounts to anything, it proves the ownership to a claim out West in the gold fields. Keep it. I haven’t a relative on earth but a sister, maybe, if she isn’t dead. But if she is living, and you can find her, and the claim pans out, give her half, will you?” “I vill--yust de same as if it vos mein own sister.” “That’s bully, pard! Gimme your hand. So long. The sun has set, and I can see my mother up there, with a big gold nugget around her head. So long.” These last words ended in a rattling gasp, and a sudden straightening of the limbs, and then a relaxation of the whole, strong body. “Cactus Bill” was dead “with his boots on.” The dazed shoemaker stood up and looked wonderingly about him. So many things had happened in this one day that it is no wonder he was dazed by it all. Suddenly the weak voice of Loney called: “Dora! Dora!” “No, no; don’t call her. I don’t vant her to see dot,” said Morris, pointing to “Bill.” Loney staggered from behind the bench, sobbing: “Oh, Mr. Goldberg! Dora’s stolen! She’s gone!” “Gone! Gone! Mein Dora gone! Vere?” “Yes; two men shot _him_, and took Dora!” The bereaved father sank down to the bench, sobbing: “Mein Gott! Mein Gott!” “What are you going to do?” asked Loney, after a while. “Mr. Goldberg, Mr. Goldberg! What are we going to do?” “I vill search de vorld ofer to find mein chilt.” Then, as he tried to take his handkerchief from his pocket, the tiny baby-shoe fell from it. This brought a flood of tears and, as he kissed the little shoe over and over again, he sobbed: “Mein little Dora! Mein little Dora!” Loney crept to the heartbroken man and passed his thin little arm around the shoemaker’s neck while they mingled their tears. CHAPTER V. Six long months had passed since the day when Dora had been stolen from her home. The father had the murdered man buried at his own expense. No one thought of accusing him; besides, little Loney had seen the assassination. The unfortunate Helen Pierson came back “clothed and in her right mind,” as she had promised, and although it made a heavy drain upon the shoemaker’s savings--added to the expenses of the funeral--she was given money to take her back to the wide West, where she could begin life over again.