It was Connors, a ghastly bullet hole between his eyes, one cheek caked black with blood.

The Sergeant sprang across, and bent over the motionless form.
"Pockets turned inside out," he said, glancing back.

"The poor devil!" "Had quite a row here," returned the scout.

"That stain over thar is blood, an' it never come from him, fer he died whar he fell.

Most likely he shot furst, er used a knife.