"Luck's hopped your way to-night, mister. I allow a thunderbolt's bein' constructed to put out your light, an' that's why Providence puts the hobbles on us humans an' blocks our game. I surmise they ain't none ready for you yet. Mebbe their heatin' plant ain't planned so as it reaches high enuff figures for you-alls, an' them pitchfork gents is busy fixin' it."
With which characteristic address he stepped to the side of its unconscious object, followed by Loyola.
The all-but-hanged scoundrel lay there strangely white and still, his legs crumpled up under him.
One glance of his experienced eyes, and the cowboy gave a queer exclamation of surprise.
"What is it?" cried the woman anxiously.
But, instead of answering, Broncho hurriedly felt under the man's shirt for the beat of his heart.
For nearly a minute he held his hand there, whilst Loyola and Bill Benson watched him with a growing look of apprehension; then he slowly drew back the eyelids and revealed a pair of glassy, expressionless eyes.
With a recoil of horror Loyola staggered back and fainted, the bluejacket catching her as she fell.
Hawksley was dead!
"Heart failure, I reckon!" muttered the cowpuncher grimly. "Seems his tickets for the great unknown were taken after all!"