It was midnight when Sanderson ceased his efforts and decided that Dale would die.  He pitied the man, but he felt no pang of regret, for Dale had brought his death upon himself.  Sanderson wondered, standing there, looking down at Dale, whether he would have killed the man.  He decided that he would have killed him.

“But that ain’t no reason why I should let him die after he’s had an accident,” he told himself.  “I’ll get him to Okar—­to the doctor.  Then, after the doc patches him up—­if he can—­an’ I still think he needs killing I’ll do it.”

So he brought Dale’s horse near.  The animal had had a long rest, and had regained his strength.

Sanderson bent to Dale and lifted his shoulders, so that he might get an arm under him, to carry him to his horse.  But at the first movement Dale groaned and opened his eyes, looking directly into Sanderson’s.

“Don’t!” he said, “for God’s sake, don’t!  You’ll break me apart!  It’s my back—­it’s broke.  I’ve felt you workin’ around me for hours.  But it won’t do any good—­I’m done.  I can feel myself goin’.”

Sanderson laid him down again and knelt beside him.

“You’re Sanderson,” said Dale, after a time.  “I thought it was Nyland chasin’ me for a while.  Then I heard you talkin’ to your horse an’ I knew it was you.  Why don’t you kill me?”

“I reckon the Lord is doin’ that,” said Sanderson.

“Yes—­He is.  Well, the Lord ain’t ever done anything for me.”

He was silent for a moment.  Then: 

“I want to tell you somethin’, Sanderson.  I’ve tried to hate you, but I ain’t never succeeded.  I’ve admired you.  I’ve cussed myself for doin’ it, but I couldn’t help it.  An’ because I couldn’t hate you, I tried my best to do things that would make you hate me.

“I’ve deviled Mary Bransford because I thought it would stir you up.  I don’t care anything for her—­it’s Peggy Nyland that I like.  Mebbe I’d have done the square thing to her—­if I’d been let alone—­an’ if she’d have liked me.  Peggy’s better, ain’t she?  When I saw her after—­after I saw Maison layin’ there, choked to——­”

“So you saw Maison—­dead, you say?”

“Ben Nyland guzzled him,” Dale’s lips wreathed in a cynical smile.  “Ben thought Maison had brought Peggy to his rooms.  You knowed Maison was dead?”

Sanderson nodded.

“Then you must have been to Okar.”  He groaned.  “Where’s Ben Nyland?”

“In Okar.  He’s lookin’ for you.”  Sanderson leaned closer to the man and spoke sharply to him.  “Look here, Dale; you were at the Double A. What has become of Mary Bransford?”

“She went away with Barney Owen—­to Okar.  Nobody hurt her,” he said, as he saw Sanderson’s eyes glow.  “She’s all right—­she’s with her brother.”

He saw Sanderson’s eyes; they were filled with an expression of incredulity; and a late moon, just showing its rim above the edge of the mesa above them, flooded the slope with a brilliancy that made it possible for Dale to see another expression in Sanderson’s eyes—­an expression which told him that Sanderson thought his mind was wandering.