It was an accident my coming West.
I was walkin' along the road with my clothes in a bundle, makin' for New York City.
I had an idea of goin' there and makin' lots of money.
I always felt like I could do it.
I came to a place one evenin' where the road forked and I didn't know which fork to take.
I studied about it for half an hour, and then I took the left-hand.
That night I run into the camp of a Wild West show that was travellin' among the little towns, and I went West with it.
I've often wondered if I wouldn't have turned out different if I'd took the other road."
"Oh, I reckon you'd have ended up about the same," said Bob Tidball, cheerfully philosophical.
"It ain't the roads we take; it's what's inside of us that makes us turn out the way we do."
Shark Dodson got up and leaned against a tree.
"I'd a good deal rather that sorrel of yourn hadn't hurt himself, Bob," he said again, almost pathetically.
"Same here," agreed Bob; "he was sure a first-rate kind of a crowbait.
But Bolivar, he'll pull us through all right.
Reckon we'd better be movin' on, hadn't we, Shark?
I'll bag this boodle ag'in and we'll hit the trail for higher timber."
Bob Tidball replaced the spoil in the bag and tied the mouth of it tightly with a cord.
When he looked up the most prominent object that he saw was the muzzle of Shark Dodson's .45 held upon him without a waver.
"Stop your funnin'," said Bob, with a grin.
"We got to be hittin' the breeze."
"Set still," said Shark.
"You ain't goin' to hit no breeze, Bob.
I hate to tell you, but there ain't any chance for but one of us.
Bolivar, he's plenty tired, and he can't carry double."
"We been pards, me and you, Shark Dodson, for three year," Bob said quietly.
"We've risked our lives together time and again.
I've always give you a square deal, and I thought you was a man.
I've heard some queer stories about you shootin' one or two men in a peculiar way, but I never believed 'em.
Now if you're just havin' a little fun with me, Shark, put your gun up, and we'll get on Bolivar and vamose.
If you mean to shoot—shoot, you blackhearted son of a tarantula!"
Shark Dodson's face bore a deeply sorrowful look.
"You don't know how bad I feel," he sighed, "about that sorrel of yourn breakin' his leg, Bob."
The expression on Dodson's face changed in an instant to one of cold ferocity mingled with inexorable cupidity.
The soul of the man showed itself for a moment like an evil face in the window of a reputable house.
Truly Bob Tidball was never to "hit the breeze" again.
The deadly .45 of the false friend cracked and filled the gorge with a roar that the walls hurled back with indignant echoes.
And Bolivar, unconscious accomplice, swiftly bore away the last of the holders-up of the "Sunset Express," not put to the stress of "carrying double."
But as "Shark" Dodson galloped away the woods seemed to fade from his view; the revolver in his right hand turned to the curved arm of a mahogany chair; his saddle was strangely upholstered, and he opened his eyes and saw his feet, not in stirrups, but resting quietly on the edge of a quartered-oak desk.
I am telling you that Dodson, of the firm of Dodson & Decker, Wall Street brokers, opened his eyes.
Peabody, the confidential clerk, was standing by his chair, hesitating to speak.
There was a confused hum of wheels below, and the sedative buzz of an electric fan.
"Ahem!
Peabody," said Dodson, blinking.
"I must have fallen asleep.
I had a most remarkable dream.
What is it, Peabody?"
"Mr. Williams, sir, of Tracy & Williams, is outside. He has come to settle his deal in X. Y. Z.
The market caught him short, sir, if you remember."
"Yes, I remember.
What is X. Y. Z. quoted at to-day, Peabody?"