Jimmie lifted his head quickly, his eyes flew open with a look in them almost of defiance as he blurted out: 

“Do you know who shot you ... that time down in Juarez?”

“Was it you, Jimmie?” asked Thornton.

Jimmie’s eyes grew larger; all defiance fled from them and the terror came back.

“You ... you think ...” he faltered.  “You thought all along....”

“Was it you, Jimmie?”

The voice was soft, the eyes gentle and now a little smile accompanied the words.  It was so easy to forget what had happened so long ago, to disregard it when one looked into this man’s eyes and saw there the end of the earthly story of a man who had not been a good man because he had never had a chance, who had never really earned his spurs as a Western badman, because he was of too small calibre, who was after all a vessel that had come imperfect from the hands of the potter.  Now Jimmie answered, his voice hushed, his eyes wide, his soul filled with wonderment: 

“It was ... me, Buck!”

“Well, Jimmie, I’m sorry.  But it can’t be helped now, can it?  And I’ll forget it if you will.”  He looked at the worn, frail form, and knew that Comstock was right and that little Jimmie Clayton was lying in the valley of the shadow of death.  So he added, his voice very low and very gentle, “I’ll even shake hands if you will, Jimmie.”

Jimmie closed his eyes but not quick enough to hide the mistiness which had rushed into them.  His breathing was irregular and heavy, its sound being the only sound in the dugout.  He did not put out his hand.  Finally, his voice steadier than it had been before, he spoke again.

“You’ve been square with me, Buck.  I want to be square with you....  There’s a frame-up to get you.  Now don’t stop me an’ I’ll talk as fast as I can.  It hurts me to talk much.”  He pressed a thin hand upon his side, paused a moment, and then went on.

“I think Broderick’s the man as has been putting over most of the stick-ups around here for quite some time.  Him and Pollard in together.  I ain’t squealin’ on a pal when I tell you this, neither,” with a little flash of his old defiance.  “Broderick’s no pal of mine.  The dirty cur.  He could of got me clear....  He wanted to make ’em give me up, to git the reward....  Their game is to make folks think you been doing these things, and to send you up for ’em.”

He stopped to rest, but even now did not look to see what effect his words had upon his hearer.

“I don’t know much about it,” he went on after a moment.  “You can find out.  But I do know they stole a saddle of yours, and a horse.  They’re going to stick up the stage out of Rock Creek Mines next week; there’s going to be some shooting, and a horse is going to get killed.  That’ll be your horse, Buck.  An’ it’ll have your saddle on.”

He had told his story.  He told nothing of how he knew, and Thornton did not press him, for he guessed swiftly that somehow the telling would implicate Kid Bedloe, who was a pal... and little Jimmie Clayton was not going to squeal on a pal.