“I vow with the rest—I am ready,” came the quiet reply.
“Good! I confess that I had some doubts, for you have acted rather queerly since Koch’s death,” sneered Morton.
“He was my friend—you can not blame me for feeling touched at his horrible death.”
“There is nothing wrong in that—only beware that you do not let your friendship carry you in his footsteps. His wretched fate would be happiness compared with yours, in that case.”
Morton seemed to have some secret spite against this member of his band, but Colton commanded himself by an effort of will, and with a scowl the outlaw leader turned once more to the subject in hand.
“Thompson, mold a bullet, your molds run the truest. Make haste.”
Five minutes later, all was ready. Jasper Morton took the bullets—one bright as silver, the others all dingy and dark—and slowly dropped them one by one into the buck-skin pouch, so that all could see. Then he shook them up thoroughly.
“Now, as I call, let each man step forward and draw. You are standing in a circle. I will begin here at my right hand, and go to the left. When you draw, open your hand and hold the bullet in the firelight so that all may see. You first, Wilkins.”
The man advanced, plunged his hand into the pouch, withdrew it, holding the pellet of lead where the firelight shone full upon it. It was dark and dingy.
So were the next half-dozen drawn. Some seemed pleased at the result, others indifferent, but one uttered a low curse, as though he had been deprived of a prized boon in not drawing the bright bullet.