"That's all, for you, I reckon," he said.
Leaving them, he went to the top of the hill and bent over the other man. A bullet fairly in the center of the man's forehead told eloquently of the manner of his death.
The man's face was not of so villainous a cast as the others. There were marks of a past refinement on it; as there were also lines of dissipation.
"I reckon this guy was all wool an' a yard wide, in his time," said Sanderson; "but from the looks of him he was tryin' to live it down. Now, we'll see what them other guys was goin' through his clothes for."
Sanderson knelt beside the man. From an inner pocket of the latter's coat he drew a letter—faded and soiled, as though it had been read much. There was another letter—a more recent one, undoubtedly, for the paper was in much better condition.
Sanderson looked at both envelopes, and finally selected the most soiled one. He hesitated an instant, and then withdrew the contents and read:
MR. WILLIAM BRANSFORD,
Tucson, Arizona.
DEAR BROTHER WILL: The last time I heard from you, you were in Tucson. That was ten years ago, and it seems an awful long time. I suppose it is too much to hope that you are still there, but it is that hope which is making me write this letter.
Will, father is dead. He died yesterday, right after I got here. He asked for you. Do you know what that means? It means he wanted you to come back, Will. Poor father, he didn't really mean to be obstinate, you know.
I shall not write any more, for I am not sure that you will ever read it. But if you do read it, you'll come back, won't you—or write? Please.