Some of the men moved off the veranda to meet the horseman when he came up, but the majority remained where they were. In spite of their interest, these people were rarely carried away by their feelings in a matter of this sort. Time would tell them all they wanted to know. Perhaps a good deal more than they cared to hear. So they preferred to wait. Their patience was quickly rewarded. In less than five minutes a bobbing head rose above the brow of the incline. Then came the man. He was still leaning forward to ease his panting horse, whose dilated nostrils and flattened ears told the onlookers of its desperate journey. The leg-weary beast floundered up the steep under quirt and spur--and, in a moment, stood tottering, gasping and steaming before the eager crowd. Sid Morton almost fell out of the saddle. And as his feet came to the ground he reeled. But Minky caught him, and he steadied himself. "I'm beat," the horseman cried desperately. "For mercy's sake hand me a horn o' whisky." He flung himself down on the edge of the veranda, leaving his jaded beast to anyone's care. He was too far spent to think of anything or anybody but himself. Falling back against the post he closed his eyes while the silent crowd looked on stupidly. Minky seemed to be the only one who fully grasped the situation. He passed the foundered horse on to his "choreman," and then himself procured a stiff drink of rye whisky for the exhausted man. This he administered without a moment's delay, and the ranchman opened his eyes. The next instant he sat up, and, in doing so, disclosed a large dark-red patch on the post he had leaned against. Minky saw the ominous stain. "Wounded?" he inquired sharply. "Some." Then he added, after a moment's hesitation, "Yes, guess I'm done." The ranchman spoke rapidly. For the moment at least his weakness seemed to have passed, and the weariness to have gone out of his eyes and voice. He strained eagerly, his eyes alight and bloodshot. The whisky had given him momentary courage, momentary strength; the drawn lines of rapidly draining life had smoothed out of his young cheeks. "Here, listen," he cried, almost fiercely. "I'm beat. I know. But--but I want to tell you things. You needn't to notice that hole in my back." He writhed painfully. "Guess they--they got my lung or--or somethin'. Y'see, it's the James gang. Some of 'em are"--a spasm of pain shot athwart his face as he hesitated--"'bout three miles back ther'--" At this point a terrible fit of coughing interrupted him, and blood trickled into the corners of his mouth. Minky understood. He dispatched one of the bystanders for some brandy, while he knelt down to the man's support. At once the drooping body sagged heavily upon his arm; but when the paroxysm had passed the weight lightened, and the dying man hurried on with his story, although his voice had lost more than half of its former ring.