"It was a terrible thing to do, Nichols—call it murder if you like. But it served him right. It was comin' to him—and I got away with it. At first when I reached water I had a thought of goin' back—to save him before he died—to get that paper I couldn't get that was inside his shirt."
McGuire leaned forward, his face in his hands for a moment, trying to finish.
"But I didn't go back, Nichols. I didn't go back. That's the crime I'm payin' for now—not the other—not the murder of Ben Cameron—I didn't do that—the murder of Hawk Kennedy—who has come back."
"What happened then?"
"I turned Ben Cameron's horse and burros loose where there was water and grass and went on to Bisbee. I told them my buddy had died of a fever. I thought he had by now. They didn't ask any questions. I was safe. The rest was easy. I filed a claim, found some real money and told what I'd found. I waited a month, then went back to Madre Gulch with Bill Munroe, the fellow that helped stake us. There was no one there. We searched the rocks and plains for miles around for signs of Hawk Kennedy's body, for we knew he couldn't have got far in that heat without water. But we found nothin'. Hawk Kennedy had disappeared."
"Then," said Peter, "you built a railroad in and sold out for half a million dollars——?"
"Or thereabouts," he muttered. "But Hawk Kennedy was alive. I found that out later when he wrote from London. We steered him off the track. But I knew he'd come back some day with that paper I'd signed. That's what's been hangin' over me. An' now it's fallen. I've told you the truth. I had to. You believe me, don't you?" he asked appealingly.
Peter had watched him keenly. There seemed little doubt that what he told was the truth. There was no flaw in the tale.
"Yes," he said after a pause. "I believe you've told me the truth. But you can hardly blame Hawk Kennedy, murderer though he is, for hating you and wanting what he thinks is his."