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.