Young Evarts appeared running frantically out of the brush.

Jean urged his horse into a run and soon covered the distance between them.

Evarts appeared beside himself with terror.
"Boy! what's the matter ?" queried Jean, as he dismounted, rifle in hand, peering quickly from Evarts's white face to the camp, and all around.
"Ber-nardino! Ber-nardino!" gasped the boy, wringing his hands and pointing.
Jean ran the few remaining rods to the sheep camp.

He saw the little teepee, a burned-out fire, a half-finished meal--and then the Mexican lad lying prone on the ground, dead, with a bullet hole in his ghastly face.

Near him lay an old six-shooter.
"Whose gun is that ?" demanded Jean, as he picked it up.
"Ber-nardino's," replied Evarts, huskily.