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 ond time for you," he told her, so gravely that the joy seemed to have departed from him.

"Are you sorry?" she asked.

"Only that I owe so much I'll never have lives enough to go around and pay my debts. First it was Dan, down at Saunders, then"

"Dan? Down at Saunders? When did you get into a scrape at Saunders, Ed?"

"It was that rustling gent, you know, the fellow from the Indian Nation, the one that—lost his life up in the canyon the evening I went to Eagle Rock camp with your Uncle Hal."

"Manuel told me about that one," she said, speaking as if she resented the conspiracy of secrecy that had kept this news from her in other sources.

Barrett had got the impression, as such sick fancies creep in and establish themselves sometimes, that he had told Alma all about meeting and fighting the rustler as he lay stretched out under Dale Findlay's bullet. He had the impression, moreover, that he had revealed a great many things which had been better kept to himself. This was a revelation to him now. He felt that he must not have emptied himself of quite all he knew.

"It was a sad and unfortunate thing for me," he said, leaving no room for doubt of his entire sincerity. "That thing kept bothering me all the time while I was laid up, coming up to haunt me like a mistake a man makes that costs somebody his life."

"He got just what was coming to him, all right!" she said, with strong indorsement of his deed. "I'd shoot one of those range wolves in a second if I caught