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The other hesitated, then with an oath threw the letter on the table. “I’ll pay the rest as soon as I can, if you’ll stop this damned tomfoolery,” he said, sullenly, for he saw that he was in a hole.

“You’ll pay it, I suppose, out of what you stole from the C. P. R. contractor’s chest. No, I don’t think that will do.”

“You want me to go to prison, then?”

“I think not. The truth would come out at the trial–the whole truth–the murder and all. There’s your child, Bobby. You’ve done him enough wrong already. Do you want him–but it doesn’t matter whether you do or not–do you want him to carry through life the fact that his father was a jail-bird and a murderer, just as Jo Byndon carries the scar you made when you threw her against the door?”

“What do you want with me, then?” The man sank slowly and heavily back into the chair.

“There is a way–have you never thought of it? When you threatened others as you did me, and life seemed such a little thing in others–can’t you think?”

Bewildered, the man looked around helplessly. In the silence which followed Foyle’s words his brain was struggling to see a way out. Foyle’s further words seemed to come from a great distance.

“It’s not too late to do the decent thing. You’ll never repent of all you’ve done; you’ll never do different.”

The old, reckless, irresponsible spirit revived in the man; he had both courage and bravado; he was not hopeless yet of finding an escape from the net. He would not beg, he would struggle.

“I’ve lived as I meant to, and I’m not going to snivel or repent now. It’s all a rotten business, anyhow,” he rejoined.

With a sudden resolution the ex-sergeant put his own pistol in his pocket, then pushed Halbeck’s pistol over toward him on the table. Halbeck’s eyes lighted eagerly, grew red with excitement, then a change passed over them. They now settled on the pistol, and stayed.

He heard Foyle’s voice. “It’s with you to do what you ought to do. Of course you can kill me. My pistol’s in my pocket. But I don’t think you will. You’ve murdered one man. You won’t load your soul up with another. Besides, if you kill me, you will never get away from Kowatin alive. But it’s with you–take your choice. It’s me or you.”

Halbeck’s fingers crept out and found the pistol.

“Do your duty, Dorl,” said the ex-sergeant, as he turned his back on his brother.

The door of the room opened, and Goatry stepped inside softly. He had work to do, if need be, and his face showed it. Halbeck did not see him.

There was a demon in Halbeck’s eyes, as his brother stood, his back turned, taking his chances. A large mirror hung on the wall opposite Halbeck. Goatry was watching Halbeck’s face in the glass, and saw the danger. He measured his distance.

All at once Halbeck caught Goatry’s face in the mirror. The dark devilry faded out of his eyes. His lips moved in a whispered oath. Every way was blocked.

With a sudden wild resolution he raised the pistol to his head. It cracked, and he fell back heavily in the chair. There was a red trickle at the temple.

He had chosen the best way out.

“He had the pluck,” said Goatry, as Foyle swung round with a face of misery.

A moment afterward came a rush of people. Goatry kept them back.

“Sergeant Foyle arrested Halbeck, and Halbeck’s shot himself,” Goatry explained to them.

A white-faced girl with a scar on her temple made her way into the room.

“Come away–come away, Jo,” said the voice of the man she loved; and he did not let her see the lifeless figure in the chair.

* * * * *

Three days later the plains swallowed them, as they made their way with Billy Goatry to the headquarters of the Riders of the Plains, where Sergeant Foyle was asked to reconsider his resignation: which he did.