He threw back his shirt collar and showed a raw wound at the base of his neck. And Dick Farley, suddenly seeing the light of a great hope, dropped his revolver into the sand as he clutched Dalton’s arm.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said in a harsh whisper. For he had remembered those other tracks he had found, and his whole body was shaking with what it might mean to him. “Where did you find him?”
Dalton looked at him curiously, as if upon a madman.
“Over yonder.” His arm swung about until his outstretched forefinger pointed toward the west—not the south. “Where he had left two horses in a little hollow. I followed him back——”
“Was he a little man, and stocky?” Farley was crying hoarsely. “Blue-eyed, a little blond mustache——?”
“He was a man six feet in his stockings,” Dalton retorted, staring. “Black-haired and blacker-hearted. If he was your pardner——”
“He wasn’t my pardner. Don’t you see, man?” It came with sudden conviction, with a great gasp of relieved nerves. “You—you came upon the man who killed Johnny! You killed Johnny Watson’s murderer!”
And as Dalton stared after him, like a man stunned, Dick Farley was running across the sandy beach and toward the cliffs. For he had seen the slender figure of a girl coming slowly through the trees, and he had a wonderful message of life and hope and love for her.
THE END
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the October, 1915 issue of the All-Story Weekly magazine published by the Frank T. Munsey Company.