The stricken man dropped on all fours, and glared up at his murderer.
Then, nerving himself for a supreme effort of hate, he raised his own
revolver and fired three times at Alfieri. Twice he missed, owing to
the restiveness of the horse, but the third shot hit the Italian in the
center of the forehead.
When Royson found them, they were lying within a few feet of each
other. Alfieri was dead. His pale student's features, softened by the
great change, wore a queer look of surprise. Von Kerber was alive, but
dying. He had fallen on his face, and Dick lifted him gently, resting
the drooping head against his knee.
"Are you badly wounded?" he asked, knowing well by the ashen pallor
beneath the bronze of the desert that the man's stormy life was fast
ebbing to its close. A dreadful froth bubbled from von Kerber's lips,
and the words came brokenly:
"That Italian beast--I hit him, yes?"
"I suppose so. I could not see what happened. But he is dead. Pay no
heed to him. Tell me what is best to be done for you.
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