The figure of a man lay in the sand, the head resting on a folded slicker. From time to time it moved slightly, and always the restlessness was accompanied by the little throat rattle that had first attracted the attention of the sheriff. The face, lying full in the moonlight, was of a ghastly pallor.
Prince lay crouched behind a piñon till he was sure the man was alone. It was possible that his confederates might return at any moment, but Billie could not let him suffer without aid. He stepped forward, revolver in hand, every sense ready for instant response.
The wounded man was Joe Yankie. The experienced eyes of Prince told him that the rustler had not long to live. He was already in that twilight region which is the border land between the known and the unknown. Billie spoke his name, and for a moment the eyes of the man cleared.
"Yore boys got me when they jumped our camp," he explained feebly.
"Sorry, Joe. You were firin' when they hit you."
The wounded man nodded. "'S all right. Streak o' bad luck. Gimme water. I'm on fire," The officer unbuckled his canteen, lifted the head of the dying man, and let the water trickle down his throat. Gently he lowered the head again to the pillow.
Then he asked a question. "Where are Albeen and—Roush?"
The last name was a shot in the dark, but it hit the bull's eye.
"Left—hours ago,"
Yankie closed his eyes wearily, but by sheer strength of will Prince recalled him from the doze into which he was slipping.