from sight. His fingers tightened on the reins, and the pony stopped. That last phrase sounded like a farewell. Christine studied him with so queer an expression that he pressed forward, puzzled and depressed and not knowing why.
X. A KILLING
Lispenard fled away from the scene as fast as his pony could be spurred, nor was he anything less than cruel with those gouging rowels. Physically, he was done up, and the terrific jolting at Tom Gillette's hands left him momentarily sick; he felt as if there were iron hoops around his chest, and the muscles of his face had congealed until it seemed he wore a plaster mask. The power was out of him, he could scarce raise his arms. And over and over again he rehearsed the blows he had struck. His fists had landed; the dull ache that ran from wrist to shoulder told him he had reached his mark. He knew he never yet had hit any man as often and as hard as he had hit Tom Gillette. It hadn't been a boxing match; he meant to kill, he meant to slash and maim. Yet Gillette had beaten him, knocked him out—Gillette whose biceps were not much more than half the size of his own.
That shook him badly. It roused him anew to a dull, vindictive passion; and his horse suffered for it. The truth about Lispenard was quite apparent; he had gone bad—his was the stuff from which were made the border's greatest renegades. Back East, under restraint, he might never have crossed that line of lawlessness, but rather pursued his way with the aura of his athletic reputation paving a career for him; unscrupulous perhaps but not dangerous; a little dissolute, making feminine conquests with his bold eyes and his gay manner that would grow harder with the years—and more threadbare. Society tolerated his kind under that fanciful pseudonym of "the man about town."
Out here, with no restraints, the uncertain fibre of the man frayed through. The step across the line was but a short one and easily taken. He had not yet taken that step, for the opportunity was not yet come. But he was right for it, spoiling for it. And thus he rode into Nelson, tethered his horse, and made his purchases. A gunnysack of grub, cartridges, and a blanket. At the saloon he tarried some time. The man had an insatiable thirst; he filled himself full of the trader's whisky and bought a bottle to pack along. At noon he passed out of Nelson with his purchases and struck straight back on the trail until he arrived at the ford. Here, instead of crossing, he paralleled the river a matter of miles and gained the heart of the broken land. High on a ridge he took his bearings and advertised his own whereabouts; San Saba would be watching, that he well knew. So he pressed on, and within twenty minutes the renegade ex-foreman stood in front of him, sheltered by an outcrop of rock.
His tongue was a little thick, his perceptions were somewhat blurred. Yet his wits were enough about him to receive a warning; he squared himself defensively as he dropped to the ground, and he took care to keep his right arm free. San Saba's little round head dropped forward, and the lank face was speculatively grim; the man was studying Lispenard, turning Lispenard's usefulness over and over in the cautious recesses of his mind. Something tipped the balance on invisible scales, and San Saba relaxed.
"Grub?"
"Dam' you, boy," muttered Lispenard, "I'm playin' square. See you do the same by me. I may look green, but I'm not soft."
"Name yore own contract," murmured San Saba, eyes never shifting; here was one man whose gaze he could meet.
"Fifty-fifty, all the way around, all the way through," was the reply. "I'm on to you, San Saba. What was it you said?—'takes a scoundrel to know a scoundrel.' That's right, my son. And I know you. I'm not your cat's-paw. We ride equal in this firm."
"Agreed," was San Saba's laconic answer. Something like sly humour flickered in the depths of his small eyes, too remote for Lispenard to see or understand. "Grub there?"
"Sure."
San Saba rifled the sack and brought out a side of bacon; be took his knife and cut a half pound slice from it as he would have pared himself a piece of chewing tobacco. Lispenard never had seen a man eat bacon raw, and the sight turned his stomach. San Saba grinned maliciously. "Ketch holt of yo'self, boy. Yore on the prairie from now on. I'll teach yo' things. Wait till we get a buff'lo—nothin' better'n liver raw."
"Don't prod me, San Saba," protested Lispenard. "I'm holdin' too much rotgut in my system."
San Saba took to studying the land with a certain wariness; he squatted on his heels and drew patterns in the sand, from time to time looking up at his uneasy companion. "Had a fight, did yo'? Gillette kind o' battered yo' features, I'd guess. No love lost atween the two of yo'?"
"I'll cut my initials in his hide yet!" exclaimed Lispenard. He threw back his head, and the thick lips trembled from the sudden upthrust of passion. "By God, I'll mark him! I can whip him—I can whip him any day in the week! It was a stroke of luck for that cursed Puritan—and there he must show himself before the grand stand of two fine ladies! No, I took too much from that damned flint face! I hate a man who sets himself to be an African potentate. Back East he walked humbler, and I'll see he walks humbler before I'm through. Next time..."
San Saba's saturnine eyes bored into the Blond Giant. Of a sudden he leaned forward, and his question snapped like a whip. "Next time, what?"
"I'll use a gun," muttered the Blond Giant.
San Saba rose. "Agreed. Fifty-fifty. Now come along."
"Where?" grumbled Lispenard. "Here, what are you running away from the man for? By God, has he bluffed you? Sitting out here in the hills like a whipped dog."
San Saba was in the saddle, his thin, repellent face devoid of expression. "Time for that. No hurry. Let him drop his guard before we try any rigs. Never stalk an animal in the wind—yo' won't never ketch him. Come on."
Lispenard followed. The outburst left him in a kind of lethargy. He felt San Saba's will taking hold, and it revived his uneasiness. The man was unbending, inflexible; behind that cheerfless mask was a core of flame. Lispenard sensed it, and for a moment the chill of fear started along his body. He wanted to protest; San Saba turned and beckoned for him to draw alongside. So the Blond Giant obeyed, surly and half in rebellion.
San Saba struck straight into the west. Never a word was spoken. The sun went before them, and the land blazed like the very pit of hell; the sky was a brilliant brass shield, then the sun dipped and dusk came with a grateful touch of wind. San Saba wound in and out of the draws. He accelerated the pace, he slowed it. They passed a ridge and halted. Lispenard roused himself at the ex-foreman's whispers to see a point of fire glowing through the darkness below.
"What is it?" he grumbled.
"I spotted 'em this mornin'." replied San Saba. "Prospectors from Deadwood. Restin' up."
"What about it?"
"Loosen yo' gun, man. No prospector comes out o' Deadwood lessen he totes a full poke. We ride down casual-like. When I say 'now'—yo' understand?"
Lispenard pulled himself together, just short of an oath. If ever he were to draw away from this gaunt, sinister partner, now must be the time. San Saba's horse crowded nearer; the ex- foreman's shadow hovered over him. Words struck him sharply, imperiously. "By God, suh, if yo' yalla, go back to Nelson; I trail with no gumpless chicken hearts. What yo' deceivin' me fo'? It ain't strange Gillette whipped yo' offen the ranch!"
Lispenard's throat burned like fire. He fumbled into his roll and drew out the whisky bottle; he knocked out the cork and drank it like so much water. "All right—I'll match that, you rascal. I'm remembering those sweet words, my friend. All right."
"When I say 'now,'" was San Saba's cold murmur. His horse moved downward. The two of them quartered the slope, drawing near to the fire. A picketed horse whinnied and a rugged figure of a man passed the light swiftly. A challenge struck them.
"Who's thar?"
"Friends—friends," called San Saba. "We ain't struck a water hole all day. Yo' kin'ly oblige?"
A second voice, unfriendly, joined in. "Man's supposed