“Mac, I’ll be domned if I loike this job,” said Casey, drawing hard at his black pipe.

“Yez want to be a directhor of the U. P. R., huh?” replied McDermott.

“Shure an’ I’ve did ivery job but run an ingine....  It’s imposed on we are, Mac.  Thim troopers niver work.  Why couldn’t they plant these stiffs?”

“Casey, I reckon no wan’s bossin’ us.  Benton picked up an’ moved yistiday.  An’ we’ll be goin’ soon wid the graveltrain.  It’s only dacent of us to bury the remains of Benton.  An’ shure yez ought to be glad to see that orful red-head cowboy go under the ground.”

“An’ fer why?” queried Casey.

“Didn’t he throw a gun on yez once an’ scare the daylights out of yez?”

“Mac, I wuz as cool as a coocumber.  An’ as to buryin’ Larry King, I’m proud an’ sorry.  He wuz Neale’s fri’nd.”

“My Gawd! but he wor chain lightnin’, Casey.  They said he shot the woman Stanton, too.”

“Mac, thet wore a dom’ lie, I bet,” replied Casey.  “He shot up Stanton’s hall, an’ a bullet from some of thim wot was foightin’ him must hev hit her.”

“Mebbe.  But it wor bad bizness.  That cowboy hit iviry wan of thim fellars in the same place.  Shure, they niver blinked afther.”

“An’ Mac, the best an’ dirtiest job we’ve had on this,” Casey’s huge hand indicated a row of freshly filled graves, “U.  P. was the plantin’ of thim fellars,” over which the desert sand was seeping.  Then dropping his spade, he bent to the quiet figure.

“Lay hold, Mac,” he said.

They lowered the corpse into the hole.  Casey stood up, making a sign of the cross before him.

“He wor a man!”

Then they filled the grave.

“Mac, wouldn’t it be dacent to mark where Larry King’s buried?  A stone or wooden cross with his name?”

McDermott wrinkled his red brow and scratched his sandy beard.  Then he pointed.  “Casey, wot’s the use?  See, the blowin’ sand’s kivered all the graves.”

“Mac, yez wor always hell at shirkin’ worrk.  Come on, now, Drill, ye terrier, drill!”

They quickly dug another long, narrow hole.  Then, taking a rude stretcher, they plodded away in the direction of a dilapidated tent that appeared to be the only structure left of Benton.  Casey entered ahead of his comrade.

“Thot’s sthrange!”

“Wot?” queried McDermott.

“Didn’t yez kiver her face whin we laid her down here?”

“Shure an’ I did, Casey.”

“An’ that face has a different look now! ...  Mac, see here!”

Casey stooped to pick up a little book from the woman’s breast.  His huge fingers opened it with difficulty.

“Mac, there’s wroitin’ in ut!” he exclaimed.

“Wal, rade, ye baboon.”

“Oh, I kin rade ut, though I ain’t much of a wroiter meself,” replied Casey, and then laboriously began to decipher the writing.  He halted suddenly and looked keenly at McDermott.