The
shot had been clearly intended for himself. The killing of Jose had
been a mere accident. In all probability the murderer had crept away
believing he had succeeded in his purpose. If he had lingered long
enough to see any one emerge from the hut, he would naturally imagine
the survivor to be the Mexican. Good! This very confidence would tend
to throw the fellow off his guard; he would have no fear of Jose.
Westcott's heart rose in his throat as he stood hesitating. The dead
man was only a Mexican, a servant, but he had been faithful, had proven
himself an honest soul; and he had died in his service, as his
substitute. All right, the affair was not going to end now; this was
war, and, while he might not know who had fired the fatal shot, he
already felt abundantly satisfied as to who had suggested its efficacy.
There was only one outfit to be benefited by his being put out of the
way--Bill Lacy's gang. If they already had Fred Cavendish killed, or
held prisoner in their power, it would greatly simplify matters if he
should meet death accidentally, or at the hands of parties unknown.
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