ward. A screen had been set up at Old Stony’s bed to provide a measure of privacy. As Mr. Livingston and Jack paused beside him, the old fellow opened his eyes and managed to grin feebly. “How are you feeling?” Jack asked, because he could think of nothing else to say. “Not so hot,” Old Stony returned. His bloodless fingers plucked at the sheet. “Reckon I’m about ready to mount my pale white horse and ride to the last roundup.” “Not at all,” Mr. Livingston tried to reassure him. “In a few days you’ll snap out of this. There’s fighting spirit in you, Stony.” “Ah, there’s fight, but the old ticker’s getting mighty tired.” Stony closed his eyes and for several minutes seemed almost to forget his visitors. They were debating whether or not to slip away quietly, when he aroused himself again. “Pull up your chairs and listen close,” he said. “I’ve got to tell you something important.” “Are you sure you feel strong enough to talk?” Mr. Livingston inquired doubtfully, as he and Jack brought their chairs to the bedside. “Fiddlesticks! If it takes my last breath, I have to get this off my chest. Now, listen close, because I’m winding up to tell you the true story o’ why I never went back to Colorado to live on my hard-earned gold.” Jack and Hap exchanged a quick glance. Would the old man tell them another wild tale, they wondered? Or would this story, in all probability his last, be a true one? “Don’t be wasting time trying to find any of my family after I’ve kicked off.” “You have no relatives?” “Nary a chick.” “How about your friend in Colorado?” Jack suggested. “I think Jarrett Walz said his name was Craig Warner.” Old Stony rolled his head on the pillow. “That snooping rascal!” he muttered. “He’s been in my things since they carted me off here!” “I’m afraid he has,” Mr. Livingston admitted. Fearful of agitating the old man, he did not tell him the extent to which the motel owner had gone through his personal papers. “Craig Warner isn’t exactly my friend,” Old Stony said slowly. “Reckon he’d
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