“Boy! what’s the matter?” queried Jean, as he dismounted, rifle in hand, peering quickly from Evarts’s white face to the camp, and all around.
“Ber-nardino! Ber-nardino!” gasped the boy, wringing his hands and pointing.
Jean ran the few remaining rods to the sheep camp. He saw the little teepee, a burned-out fire, a half-finished meal—and then the Mexican lad lying prone on the ground, dead, with a bullet hole in his ghastly face. Near him lay an old six-shooter.
“Whose gun is that?” demanded Jean, as he picked it up.
“Ber-nardino’s,” replied Evarts, huskily. “He—he jest got it—the other day.”
“Did he shoot himself accidentally?”
“Oh no! No! He didn’t do it—atall.”
“Who did, then?”
“The men—they rode up—a gang-they did it,” panted Evarts.
“Did you know who they were?”