Jack looked up at Dr. Duchesne's critical face, and the doctor went on gravely—
"Confessing religion to him—saying you believed as he did!"
A faint laugh glimmered in the dark hollows of Jack's eyes.
"The old man," he said, explanatory, "has been preachin' mighty heavy at me ever since t'other doctor came, and I reckoned it might please him to allow that everything he said was so. You see the old man's bin right soft on me, and between us, doctor, I ain't much to give him in exchange. It's no square game!"
"Then you believe you're going to die?" said the doctor, gravely.
"I reckon."
"And you have no directions to give me?"
"There's a black hound at Sacramento—Jim Briggs, who borrowed and never gave back my silver-mounted Derringers, that I reckoned to give to you! Tell him he'd better give them up or I'll"——
"Jack," interrupted Dr. Duchesne, with infinite gentleness, laying his hand on the invalid's arm, "you must not think of me."
Jack pressed his friend's hand.