He was terribly white.  His teeth fairly chattered in his head.  He had played a desperate part—­and lost.  The race and this present denouement had shattered the man completely.  He came down to the ground and stood there, silently staring at Van.

Despite his show of strength Van stepped with difficulty to the back of his car and seated himself within.

“Up in the seat there, Searle,” he repeated, “and drive back at moderate speed.”

Bostwick’s surrender was complete.  He climbed to the driver’s position, still silently, and started the car in an automatic way that knew no thought of resistance.  At the rear of his head Van held the gun, and back towards Goldite they rolled.

Two miles out the sheriff, in a borrowed car, grimly seated at the driver’s side, came bearing down upon them.  The cars were halted long enough for the sheriff to take his place with Searle, and then they hastened on.

Christler had instantly seen that Van was wounded.  He as quickly realized that to rush Van to town and medical attendance was the only possible plan.

He merely said, “You’re hurt.”

Van tried to smile.  “Slightly punctured.”  He was rapidly losing strength.

Christler thought to divert him.  He shouted above the purring of the car.

“Found Matt all right.  I’m goin’ to take him back to the State authorities in that convict suit that’s hangin’ ’round the store.”

Van was instantly aroused.  “No you don’t Bill!  No you don’t!  I’ve got use for those stripes myself.  You’ll buy Matt the best suit of clothes in town, and charge the bill to me.”

If Bostwick heard, or understood, he did not make a sign.  He was driving like a servant on the box, but he could not have stood on his feet.

They were nearing the town.  A cavalcade of horsemen, drivers of buggies, and men on foot came excitedly trooping down the road to meet the short procession.

Despite his utmost efforts, Van was gone.  Weak from the loss of blood and the shock, he could hold up his frame no longer.

“Bill,” he said, as the sheriff turned around, “I guess I’m—­all in—­for a little.  Cold storage him, till I get back on my feet.”

He waved a loose gesture towards Bostwick, then sank unconscious on the floor.

CHAPTER XLV

THE LAST CIGARS

Trimmer, the lumberman, not to be stayed, had broken in upon McCoppet ruthlessly, with perceptions unerring concerning the troubles in the air, when Lawrence was arrested.  The gambler consented to an interview with instinctive regard for his safety.  That something significant was laid on Trimmer’s mind he felt with a subtle sense of divination.

The lumberman, smoking furiously, came to his point with utmost directness.

“Opal,” he said, “I’m goin’ away, and I want ten thousand dollars.  I want it now.  You owe me some you ain’t paid up, and now I’m raisin’ the ante.”