On the desert, where he had thrown it in rising, lay the deputy’s coat, and tangled with it Gard found his own canteen. He took this as a good omen.
“I may need you, yet,” he whispered, as he took it up.
In one pocket of the coat was a nickle watch, made fast by a leather thong, to a buttonhole. Another contained the deputy’s pipe, some loose tobacco, and a water-tight box, in which were fourteen matches. Gard counted them, carefully.
He turned to the other side-pocket, with but faint hope that the flask which he had scorned the day before would be in it yet.
It was there, however, and beside it, in a greasy, crushed packet, a big beef sandwich. The deputy, accustomed to provide against long rides in the desert, had secured this before leaving the hotel.
The man ate it eagerly, and took a swallow from the flask. The food, and the fiery liquor, warmed him, and revived his courage.
In the coat’s inner pocket were papers, a worn memorandum book, an envelop covered with figures, another, longer one, containing a document. As Gard turned them over a postal-card fell to the desert.
He picked it up. On the back were a picture, and some printing. The man read the latter through before he realized what the card was for. It published his escape from jail, and the fact that five hundred dollars reward was offered for his capture.
Now he remembered the deputy’s unfinished sentence, and knew why Westcott had betrayed him.
Westcott had got that reward! He had sold him back to death as he had sold him before. God! Why could he not have had his fingers upon that lying throat just once? He would have found strength for the job that needed doing!