A bullet fairly in the center of the man's forehead told eloquently of the manner of his death.
The man's face was not of so villainous a cast as the others.

There were marks of a past refinement on it; as there were also lines of dissipation.
"I reckon this guy was all wool an' a yard wide, in his time," said Sanderson; "but from the looks of him he was tryin' to live it down.
Now, we'll see what them other guys was goin' through his clothes for." Sanderson knelt beside the man.

From an inner pocket of the latter's coat he drew a letter--faded and soiled, as though it had been read much.

There was another letter--a more recent one, undoubtedly, for the paper was in much better condition.
Sanderson looked at both envelopes, and finally selected the most soiled one.

He hesitated an instant, and then withdrew the contents and read: MR.