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sun was canting down toward the dike of the mountains when Original Bill returned to consciousness. It was not a comfortable transition; the beat of a thousand Sioux war drums was pulsing through his head. His whole body seemed a thing apart, beyond his power to order. His opening eyes gazed upon a roughly beamed and strange roof which had a way of expanding and contracting in defiance of all experience governing the behavior of roofs.

When he essayed to sit up there was a metallic clatter under him; a pair of handcuffs had slipped from his chest, where they lay, to the floor. The bright metal served to bridge the gulf of darkness whence the man was emerging. He recalled the fight,—two against one; his desperate twistings and turnings with a human shield held before him to receive the expected bullet. Original's hand stole to the