"No. You would grant none to me. It would not be safe for me to permit
you to live."
"But, hasn't I did my duty by you, pardner? Ef't hadn't been fur me Sile
Keene wouldn't a went under," uttered the helpless tramp, pleadingly.
There was no mercy in the heart of Andrew Barkswell, however. Jounce knew
too much and was disposed to be dangerous, so he did not scruple to put
him out of the way.
"Not a word, scoundrel," growled Barkswell, and with the words he drew a
clasp knife from an inner pocket.
Again the fallen wretch gasped for mercy.
"You butted against the wrong man, Perry Jounce," muttered Barkswell,
"when you attempted to frighten me from my plans. What is your life to
me? No more than _his_, than that woman's. You must die."
The point of the knife touched the heaving bosom of the tramp, above the
heart.
"Mercy! Spare me, brother--!"
The words were cut short by a quick movement on the part of Barkswell. He
had sent the knife to the hilt in the bosom of the tramp.
"There, that ends your career," and with the words the young villain came
to his feet.
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