Alton heard the scratching of Horton’s pen.  “And Hallam hired you to murder me?”

“Yes,” and Damer glanced at Horton.  “You have got that down?  At first he only hired me to go up to Somasco and watch you while I worked for you.  You’re a tolerably smart man, Harry Alton, but it’s kind of curious you didn’t know me.”

Alton stared at the drawn face with a bewildered expression, and then moved a trifle in his chair.  “Good Lord!” he said.  “Black Nailer’s partner!  Well, I didn’t see you that often—­and it was dark when——­”

Damer’s face went awry with pain, but his gesture implied comprehension.

“Yes,” he said feebly.  “When you got him with the axe.  Nailer had been on the whisky, and that gun of his was a little stiff on the magazine-spring; but he was the best partner I ever had, and I left a good claim behind when you and the boys chased me right out of that part of Washington.  Now you’ve got the beginning.  Give me a little more brandy.”

The doctor came forward softly and held a glass to the cracked lips, then lifted the dying man a little.  After that there was silence for at least five minutes, and Alton sat rigidly still, choking down his fierce impatience as he saw his last hope slipping away from him.  Then he drew in his breath with a quivering sigh as the feeble voice commenced again.

“Get it down.  You haven’t much time.”

Horton’s pen scratched and spluttered, as sinking now and then almost beyond hearing, the disjointed words fell from the lips that could scarcely frame them; but it was nevertheless with a horrible vividness that Damer told his story, and those who sat listening gasped with relief when at last it was finished and everything was plain.  Then he signed to the doctor, who raised his head a trifle and once more held a glass to his lips.

“Read it.  I want to see you’ve got it straight,” he said.  For a space Horton’s voice rose and fell monotonously as he read in haste.  Then he approached the bed with the paper, and the dying man seized the pen.  He traced a few straggling characters upon the document, and let it fall again, watched with strained impatience while Horton and the surveyor signed, and then turned his head from the light.

“Now,” he said, “I guess I’ve fixed the man who held the whip over me up quite tight.”

It was probably ten minutes before he moved again, and then he signed to Alton very feebly with his fingers, while a curious look that afterwards puzzled the rancher, who could not forget it, crept into his eyes.  There was vindictiveness in it, but whether there was more than this he could never tell.

“There’s just another thing,” he said in a hoarse, strained whisper as Alton bent over him.  “Come nearer—­a little nearer still.  Now there was another man as well as Hallam.”

Alton glancing round saw that the others had not heard, and stooped a trifle further as the cracked lips moved again.  Nobody caught what Damer told him, but when he straightened himself again his face was white and grim, and he went out without a word to any one.  Then the flicker of a smile came into the eyes of the dying man, and he moved his head so that his face was hidden.  The doctor, crossing over softly, looked down on him and signed to the others that they might leave the room.