He arose, wholly self-mastered, and with hard, strong hands made a detailed examination of Ezram’s wound.  He had evidently been shot by a rifle of large caliber, probably at close range.  Ezram’s own gun lay at his feet, loaded but not cocked.

“They shot you down in cold blood, old boy, didn’t they?” he found himself asking.  “You didn’t have a chance!”

But the gray lips were setting with death, and could not answer.  Ben had forgotten for the instant; he must keep better hold of himself.  The time was not ripe to turn himself loose.  But he did wish for one more word with Ezram, just a few little minutes of planning.  They could doubtless work out something good together.  They could decide what to do.

From this point his mind naturally fell to Ezram’s parting advice to him.  “I’ve only got one decent place to keep things safe, and that ain’t so all-fired decent,” the old man had told him.  “I always put ’em down my bootleg, between the sock and the leather.  If I ever get shuffled off, all of a sudden, I want you to look there careful.”

Still with the same deathly pallor he crept over the dead leaves to Ezram’s feet.  His hands were perfectly steady as he unlooped the laces, one after another, and quietly pulled off the right boot.  In the boot leg, just as Ezram had promised, Ben found a scrap of white paper.

He spread it on his knee, and unfolded it with care.  The moonlight was not sufficiently vivid, however, for him to read the penciled scrawl.  He felt in his pocket for a match.

Because his mind was operating clear and sure, his thoughts flashed at once to his enemies in their cabins along the creek.  He did not want them to know he had found the body.  His first instinct was to work in the dark, to achieve his ends by stealth and cunning!  It was strange what capacity for cunning had come upon him.  Oh, he would be crafty—­sharp—­sure in every motion.

It was unlikely, however, that the faint glare of a match could carry so far.  To make sure he walked behind the covert, then turned his back to the canyon through which the creek flowed.  The match cracked, inordinately loud in the silence, and his eyes followed the script.  Ezram had been faithful to the last: 

    To WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: 

    In case of my death I leave all I die possessed of including my
    brother Hiram’s claim near Yuga River to my pard and buddy, Ben
    Darby.

    (Signed) EZRA MELVILLE.

The document was as formal as Ezram could make it, with a carefully drawn seal, and for all its quaint wording, it was a will to stand in any court.  But Ezram had not been able to hold his dignity for long.  He had added a postscript: 

Son, old Hiram made a will, and I guess I can make one too.  I just found out about them devils that jumped our claim.  I left you back there at the river because I didn’t want you taking any dam fool risks till I found out how things lay.

    I just got one thing to ask.  If them devils get me—­get them.  My
    life ain’t worth much but I want you to make them pay for the little
    it is worth.  Never stop till you’ve done it.