“And the remittance man—” he began.
“Is myself—Jim Blackstone—at your service.”
The man turned his back to Philip, hunched over, as if bent in grief. For a moment he stood thus. There followed in that same moment the loud report of a pistol, and when Philip leaped to catch his tottering form the glaze of death was in the outlaw's eyes.
“I was going to do this—back there—beside her,” he gasped faintly. A shiver ran through him and his head dropped limply forward.
Philip laid him with his face toward a rock and stepped out from his concealment. The girl had heard the pistol shot and was running up the trail.
“What was that?” she asked, when he had hurried to her.
“The last shot, sweetheart,” he answered softly, catching her in his arms. “We're going back to Billinger now, and then—-home.”