“Well, then,” said he, “I’ll admit to you that I did kill a man by the name of Shoot, in Missouri. When I left there I went to California, and killed another chap there. I was confined in jail in Oregon, and dug my way out with tools given me by my squaw.” “Now,” said his confessor, “having told me thus much, will you not give me what information you can concerning the band to which you belong, their names, crimes, and purposes?” “Ask Jack Gallagher. He knows more than I do.” Gallagher, who had been brought into an adjoining apartment, separated from the one in which this conversation occurred by a thin board partition, on hearing this reference to himself, poured forth a torrent of profane abuse upon the head of his guilty confederate. “It is just such cowardly rascals and traitors as you,” said he, “that have brought us into this difficulty. You ought to die for your treachery.” “I have dared death in all its forms,” said Helm, “and I do not fear to die. Give me some whiskey.” The guilty wretch, having been consigned to the custody of keepers, steeped what little sensibility he possessed in whiskey, and passed the time until the execution in ribald jesting and profanity. Jack Gallagher bounded into the committee-room, swearing and laughing, as if the whole affair was intended as a good joke. “What,” said he, with an oath and epithet appended to every word, “is it all about? This is a pretty break, isn’t it?” On being informed of the charges against him, and the sentence of the Committee, he dropped into a seat and began to cry. In a few moments he jumped up, and with much expletive emphasis demanded the names of the persons who had informed against him. “It was ‘Red,’ who was hanged a few weeks ago on the Stinking Water.” Gallagher cursed the dead ruffian for a traitor, liar, and coward, in the same breath. “My God!” said he, “must I die in this way?” He was taken out of the committee-room while uttering the most terrible oaths and blasphemies. Hayes Lyons, the only remaining ruffian, had not yet been arrested. The party detailed for that object, while searching for him at the Arbor Restaurant, had found and captured Gallagher, on learning which the Gallagher pursuers immediately took up the hunt for Lyons. Foiled at several points, they accidentally learned that he had crossed the crags overhanging the gulch, and, after wandering in a circuit of several miles through the mountains, had come back to a miner’s cabin but half a mile distant from his point of departure. Proceeding with all possible speed to the cabin, the leader threw open the door, and, bringing his pistol to a deadly aim, exclaimed, “Throw up your hands.” Lyons, who was in the act of raising a piece of a griddlecake to his mouth, dropped the fork instantly, and obeyed the order. “Come out here, and surrender at once,” was the next command. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and, as he stepped out into the biting atmosphere, he asked in an undertone,