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."
Sanderson knelt beside the man. From an inner pocket of the latter's
coat he drew a letter--faded and soiled, as though it had been read
much.
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