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 would have been equal to shutting up his most profitable channel of income to have closed that door.

The sheriff arrived close on the heels of the doctor. He had heard that Withers was shot, and had come to see if there was anything in the incident of which he should take official cognizance. The city marshal had not appeared in the morning's activities at all.

Myron produced the record he had made of Withers's confession.

"Here, you represent the law, you take care of this," he said, his importance over him in great solemnity.

The sheriff read it quickly, Myron's writing being in a large and carpenterly hand.

"Where's Laylander?" he inquired. "Does he know about this?"

"I don't think he was here; I didn't see him," Myron replied.

"He went back to watch them cows," a railroader said.

In the parlor the doctor was feeling around the black spot in Cal Withers's forehead, an inch below the rim of his hair.

"They got me this time," Withers whispered.

"Um-m-m?" said the doctor. He turned the sufferer's head to get the light on it more directly, a hand on either side of his face; held it so a little while, looking as if he debated whether it was worth while to attempt anything in such an extreme case. Presently he turned Withers's head back to align with his body, as if he composed him for the rigor of death.