Jack Colton came next, and the features of the outlaw chief lighted up with a gleam of malignant joy, as the young man held up the fatal pellet. It was just what he had been longing for. Had he known the meaning of the word, it is probable that he would have prayed for this result.
“You are the elected, Colton,” he cried, in a voice that rung with triumph. “Your hand must deal the avenging blow! But first—to show that all was conducted fair. See—here are the other bullets. All are dark—you drew the only bright one. Are you satisfied?”
“Yes, I am satisfied. I will avenge Hackett, since fate selects me. Tell me the name, and what I must do,” quietly replied the young man.
“You must kill him, and before morning. Such are the rules. No unnecessary delay.”
“I know—his name?” impatiently.
“Listen. Of course I am very sorry that it has happened as it has. It would have been better had the choice fallen on some other man; but since you are elected, you must forget all save that you belong to this league,” and as he spoke Morton’s eyes gleamed with diabolical joy.
“What do you mean by this?” faltered Colton, his bronzed cheek paling.
“Only to prepare you. Israel Hackett was killed by your brother, Henry Colton!”
“My God!” gasped Colton, the terrible truth bursting upon his heart. “My brother—and I—but no, no! You can not mean that!”
“Thompson, remember what I told you,” cried Morton, sharply, shrinking back from before the agitated outlaw, one hand seeking his belt. “Yes, I do mean it. Your brother killed Hackett, and he is doomed. You took your chance with the rest of us—you must fulfill your oath.”