“Listen. Of course I am very sorry that it has happened as it has. It would have been better had the choice fallen on some other man; but since you _are_ elected, you must forget all save that you belong to this league,” and as he spoke Morton’s eyes gleamed with diabolical joy. “What do you mean by this?” faltered Colton, his bronzed cheek paling. “Only to prepare you. Israel Hackett was killed by _your brother, Henry Colton_!” “My God!” gasped Colton, the terrible truth bursting upon his heart. “My brother—and I—but no, no! You can not mean that!” “Thompson, remember what I told you,” cried Morton, sharply, shrinking back from before the agitated outlaw, one hand seeking his belt. “Yes, I _do_ mean it. Your brother killed Hackett, and he is doomed. _You_ took your chance with the rest of us—you must fulfill your oath.” “I will not—I’ll kill you first!” screamed the unfortunate young man, and in his frenzy, his revolver was jerked from the sheath at his side. Now Morton’s precautions stood him in good stead. Thompson sprung forward and clutched the half-crazed outlaw, pinning his arms closely to his sides, holding him powerless as a child. Thus assisted, Morton quickly disarmed Colton, then motioned Thompson to release him. With a hot, angry glance around him, the young man stood still, quelling his emotion by a powerful exertion of will. “Now let me know just what you mean by this action, Jack Colton. Have you forgotten your oath this soon? Do you intend to defy the league?” “Yes—when you try to make me soil my hands with the blood of a brother,” was the firm reply. “Ah, you remember the tie now, do you?” sneered Morton. “And yet, only a few weeks since, you swore that you’d have his heart’s blood. Have you forgotten that he cursed you, and drove you from his door like a dog, because, as he said, you insulted his wife?” “He only served me right. I did insult her, but it was when I was drunk. Never mind that now. I tell you that I will not murder him.” “Take care—you are sealing your own doom by these words. You have been told your duty—obey, or take the consequence.” “Let it come. I am ready.” “Durn the fool—what’s the use o’ palaverin’?” growled Thompson. “Here’s the bullets; shake ’em up, an’ give _him_ a turn.” “For the last time—will you obey?” “No.” Again the drawing of the death-lottery was gone through, this time even more deliberately than before. Evidently Morton was anxious to put Colton to death, from some reason of his own. During its progress, the attitude of the prisoner—for such he now was—did not change, but his features altered greatly. His resolution seemed dying out as he noted the cool nonchalance with which the lots were drawn. Life appeared more and more dear to him. “It’s me,” uttered Thompson, with a coarse laugh. “Well, Colton, my boy, since it’s so, reckon I must. How’ll you hev it—lead or steel?” “Neither. Spare me—do not murder me!” gasped the young man, pale and trembling.