The latter turned a set face toward him and pointed.  The rescued man had opened his eyes.  He reached now convulsively for a tuft of grass, paused, stared.

“Hit’s Sam Woodhull!” ejaculated the scout.  Then, suddenly, “Git away, Will—­move back!”

Banion looked over his shoulder as he stood, his own hands and arms, his clothing, black with mire.  The old man’s gray eye was like a strange gem, gleaming at the far end of the deadly double tube, which was leveled direct at the prostrate man’s forehead.

“No!” Banion’s call was quick and imperative.  He flung up a hand, stepped between.  “No!  You’d kill him—­now?”

With a curse Jackson flung his gun from him, began to recoil the muddied ropes.  At length, without a word, he came to Banion’s side.  He reached down, caught an arm and helped Banion drag the man out on the grass.  He caught off a handful of herbage and thrust it out to Woodhull, who remained silent before what seemed his certain fate.

“Wipe off yore face, you skunk!” said the scout.  Then he seated himself, morosely, hands before knees.

“Will Banion,” said he, “ye’re a fool—­a nacherl-borned, congenual, ingrain damned fool!  Ye’re flyin’ in the face o’ Proverdence, which planted this critter right here fer us ter leave where no one’d ever be the wiser, an’ where he couldn’t never do no more devilment.  Ye idjit, leave me kill him, ef ye’re too chicken-hearted yoreself!  Or leave us throw him back in again!”

Banion would not speak at first, though his eyes never left Woodhull’s streaked, ghastly face.

“By God!” said he slowly, at length, “if we hadn’t joined Scott and climbed Chapultepec together, I’d kill you like a dog, right here!  Shall I give you one more chance to square things for me?  You know what I mean!  Will you promise?”

“Promise?” broke in Jackson.  “Ye damned fool, would ye believe ary promise he made, even now?  I tell-ee, boy, he’ll murder ye the fust chanct he gits!  He’s tried hit one night afore.  Leave me cut his throat, Will!  Ye’ll never be safe ontel I do.  Leave me cut his throat er kill him with a rock.  Hit’s only right.”

Banion shook his head.

“No,” he said slowly, “I couldn’t, and you must not.”

“Do you promise?” he repeated to the helpless man.  “Get up—­stand up!  Do you promise—­will you swear?”

“Swear?  Hell!” Jackson also rose as Woodhull staggered to his feet.  “Ye knew this man orto kill ye, an’ ye sneaked hit, didn’t ye?  Whar’s yer gun?”

“There!” Woodhull nodded to the bog, over which no object now showed.  “I’m helpless!  I’ll promise!  I’ll swear!”

“Then we’ll not sound the No-quarter charge that you and I have heard the Spanish trumpets blow.  You will remember the shoulder of a man who fought with you?  You’ll do what you can now—­at any cost?”

“What cost?” demanded Woodhull thickly.

Banion’s own white teeth showed as he smiled.