By and by he had got down maybe four or five feet, and Tim got off his hoss.
"I think that will do," says he.
"You may come out.

Billy, my son, cover him.

Now, Mr.Texas Pete," he says, cold as steel, "there is the grave.

We will place the hoss in it.

Then I intend to shoot you and put you in with the hoss, and write you an epitaph that will be a comfort to such travellers of the Trail as are honest, and a warnin' to such as are not.