Steptoe scrambled to his knees, revolver in hand, but the other figure never moved. “Hands up!” said Jack, sighting his own weapon. The reports seemed simultaneous, but Jack's bullet had pierced Steptoe's brain even before the outlaw's pistol exploded harmlessly in the air.
The two men dismounted, but by a common instinct they both ran to the prostrate figure that had never moved.
“By God! it's a boy!” said Jack, leaning over the body and lifting the shoulders from which the head hung loosely. “Neck broken and dead as his pal.” Suddenly he started, and, to Demorest's astonishment, began hurriedly pulling off the glove from the boy's limp right hand.
“What are you doing?” demanded Demorest in creeping horror.
“Look!” said Jack, as he laid bare the small white hand. The first two fingers were merely unsightly stumps that had been hidden in the padded glove.
“Good God! Van Loo's brother!” said Demorest, recoiling.
“No!” said Jack, with a grim face, “it's what I have long suspected,—it's Steptoe's son!”
“His son?” repeated Demorest.
“Yes,” said Jack; and he added, after looking at the two bodies with a long-drawn whistle of concern, “and I wouldn't, if I were you, say anything of this to Barker.”
“Why?” said Demorest.