There was another long wait.  Sanderson could picture the two men arguing the question that must deeply concern them:  “Which shall be the first to show himself?”

“I’d bet a million they’re drawin’ straws,” grinned Sanderson.

Whether that method decided the question Sanderson never knew.  He knew, however, that a hat was slowly coming into view around a side of the rock, and he was positive that this time there was a head in the hat.  He could not have told now he knew there was a head in the hat, but that was his conviction.

The hat appeared slowly, gradually taking on definite shape in Sanderson’s eyes, until, with a cold grin, he noted some brown flesh beneath it, and a section of dark beard.

Sanderson did not fire, then.  The full head followed the hat, then came a man’s shoulders.  Nothing happened.  The man stepped from behind the rock and stood out in full view.  Still nothing happened.

The man grinned.

“I reckon we got him, Cal,” he said.  His voice was gloating.  “I reckoned I’d got him; he tumbled sorta offish—­like it had got him in the guts.  That’s what I aimed for, anyway.  I reckon he done suffered some, eh?” He guffawed, loudly.

Then the other man appeared.  He, too, was grinning.

“I reckon we’ll go see.  If you got him where you said you got him, I reckon he done a lot of squirmin’.  Been followin’ us—­you reckon?”

They descended the slope of the hill, still talking.  Evidently, Sanderson’s silence had completely convinced them that they had killed him.

But halfway down the hill, one of the men, watching the rock near Sanderson as he walked, saw the muzzle of Sanderson’s rifle projecting from between the two rocks.

For the second time since the appearance of Sanderson on the scene the man discharged his rifle from the hip, and for the second time he missed the target.

Sanderson, however, did not miss.  His rifle went off, and the man fell without a sound.  The other, paralyzed from the shock, stood for an instant, irresolute, then, seeming to discover from where Sanderson’s bullet had come, he raised his rifle.

Sanderson’s weapon crashed again.  The second man shuddered, spun violently around, and pitched headlong down the slope.

Sanderson came from behind the rock, grinning mirthlessly.  He knew where his bullets had gone, and he took no precautions when he emerged from his hiding place and approached the men.

“That’s all, for you, I reckon,” he said.

Leaving them, he went to the top of the hill and bent over the other man.  A bullet fairly in the center of the man’s forehead told eloquently of the manner of his death.

The man’s face was not of so villainous a cast as the others.  There were marks of a past refinement on it; as there were also lines of dissipation.

“I reckon this guy was all wool an’ a yard wide, in his time,” said Sanderson; “but from the looks of him he was tryin’ to live it down.  Now, we’ll see what them other guys was goin’ through his clothes for.”