Soon he opened his eyes and stared about him. He saw the girl he had tried to murder, and he looked into the sober, reproachful countenance of the king of scouts.
“Take the money,” he said faintly, and trying to conjure up a smile. “I’ve lost.”
He was asked to make a full confession of his crimes.
“Life is too short for that,” he replied, “but I’ll tell something about the mine affair. I would never have plotted to kill my three uncles if I hadn’t bumped up against Tom Darke. He knew me as Rixton Clay, and had no notion that I was related to the Holmeses. We became card partners, and soon I knew all his secrets. One night when he was pretty full he told me that he had come West for the purpose of killing three men—Peter, Jared, and Matt Holmes. At that time Peter’s mine was the talk of Colorado. There had been a rich discovery, and the mine was worth millions.
“Well, I reflected, and soon the plot was born. Tom Darke killed Peter and Jared, and he would have killed Matt if I had not taken the job off his hands. I had to, for I was afraid that Darke’s gun would miss fire and that Matt would get him.
“The letter that brought my Cousin Myra to New Mexico was written by me. I had ingratiated myself with my Uncle Matt, and I knew he had made a will, leaving his estate to me and Myra. His estate then did not amount to much, but the estate of Peter did, and when Peter and Jared died, Matt became the owner of the mine. Before Myra arrived, Peter and Jared had crossed the divide.
“I could have come forward and claimed half the estate when my three uncles were dead, but I was afraid that I would be arrested. Although I had covered my tracks pretty well, I dared not face the authorities. Therefore, my scheme at the last was to marry Myra, compel her to give me the larger part of her share, and then light out for foreign parts.
“I believe she was on the point of trusting me, when you, Mr. Cody, was trapped in the cave. But I found when we got outside the hole that I had caught a Tartar.”
His voice became so weak that it could scarcely be heard. More whisky was administered.
“There is not much more for me to say,” the dying villain proceeded. “I stole Crow-killer’s pony and trailed you and your friends, Mr. Cody, to the Indian valley. I guessed your object. You were on your way to rescue my cousin from the hands of the Navahos. I determined to block that game if I could. I sneaked into the village ahead of you, and just after dark got to Myra’s tepee, and was lucky enough to find that no one was with her. I was once a druggist, and I have always carried on my person a powerful and peculiarly acting drug that was sent to me from the East Indies. This drug will produce a sleep that resembles death. I had come to the tepee prepared to work a bold design, and before I crawled away the drug was in the hands of Myra, and she knew what to do.”