inspection of the forest around him. Something was on his mind, and the farther they travelled the harder he gripped her and the more he punished his horse, raking his spurs all along the animal's flanks, sawing at the reins. As badly as she herself was placed she felt sorry for the beast; the man was killing it with his temper. And presently she began to feel ashamed of her own lack of spirit.
"Let me down! You can't go on with this. You'll be caught sooner or later."
"Ha—you think so? Well, I'm not the tender Easterner any more, girl. I've studied under good heads. D'you think your blessed Tom Gillette will ever catch up? He can't do more than sit in a saddle. By Godfrey, I wish he would follow! There's a debt I'd like to pay. Oh, but I'll pay it! I'll leave him in torment the rest of his life!"
"Let me down!"
"Stop that screeching, or I'll give you something to cry about!"
"You'll never get away, you swine!"
"Don't believe all you read in the story books," he jeered. "I've got a nice little retreat picked up here. And you'll wash and mend and cook for me while they search till the very pit freezes over. You'll see 'em within hand's reach, too, but I'll have you whipped then! You won't have enough spirit to raise your head!"
They swept into another small depression, ringed around by the pines. The horse swerved, and Lispenard sat back in his saddle to curb the animal, his grip on the girl relaxing. She had been watching for such a moment; her whole body gathered into one last effort, she wrenched the encircling arm free and flung herself outward and down, landing asprawl on the uneven ground. Lispenard's cry of rage broke like a bomb in the glade, the horse came to a swirling halt, and the man sprang from the saddle. Lorena rose and ran. If she only could reach the shelter of the trees and just for a moment put him off the trail...She heard his heavy body pounding in pursuit, she heard his laboured breathing nearer and nearer; she knew she had no right to look around, but the fear she had of him was stronger than her reason. So she turned her head just as his great arm came swinging outward. It struck her on the temple and she collapsed, crying like a child with a broken heart.
Lispenard stood over her, watching her face. But for the moment she was done, she had no tricks left in her. The brush rattled behind him, and he whirled about, yanking the gun from his belt and challenging.
"Who's that?"
There was no answer. Lispenard's rolling eyes passed around the circle; a patch of sun came through the aperture of the trees and sparkled along his sweat-beaded face. In the hard light he seemed more gross, more frenzied than before; the great muscles of his neck stood out sharply, and his immense chest rose and fell to his laboured breathing. Presently he became aware that he made a fair target, and the thought sent him tramping around the edge of the glade, knees springing at each step and his gun veering from side to side. Down went his yellow head, like that of an enraged and trapped bull. Near the girl he stopped.
"Get up!"
He saw her tremble; it seemed only to rouse the last vile dregs of his temper. "Get up, you spitfire! Don't sham with me! I've got you and I'll keep you! Next time you try that I'll break bones! Get up!"
The brush stirred behind him; he swung on his heels, every flabby muscle of his face cutting a seam across the white flesh. Lorena rose to her knees and turned her head. Across, on the opposite side from Lispenard, San Saba stood framed between two small pines; the ex-foreman's little red eyes were affixed to Lispenard's back and his thin features were set and drained of emotion. Even as she looked, his arms dropped and rose, and there was a gun levelled in his palm.
"Turn aroun', yella-belly."
Lispenard revolved, the breath blasting out of his mouth. "By Godfrey!"
"Drop that gun."
Lispenard appeared rooted; his eyes rolled and flashed. "No by a..."
"Drop it or yo' die this minute."
The gun fell. San Saba stood straighter, and there was an imperceptible flickering of emotion across his gray lips. "Yo' been deceivin' me right along, man," said he, droning out the words. "Yo' knew Gillette was in that cabin. Yo' tricked me to he'p yo' own plans."
"Well," snapped Lispenard, "he's still there. Go back and get him if you want him. Don't interfere with me."
"Trash. Yo' jest trash. I don't traffic with women, and I got no use fo' a man as does."
"Don't be pious! Get out of my affairs!"
"No, suh. I'm a dam' rascal, like I once told you. But I don't sleep with snakes. Well, yo' had yo' minute of grace. I'm wipin' yo' out now."
Lispenard saw death across the interval and his whole face twisted into lines of agony. "Here—let me get my gun. You tricked me out of it. Fair fight."
"I don't fight fair," said San Saba, each word falling sharp and rhythmically across the space, "unless I've got to."
The girl averted her head from the ex-foreman. She felt the movement of Lispenard's body; there was a single smashing echo, and the Blond Giant was on the ground, threshing his life away. She had never heard a cry wrung out of any creature half so shrill or so despairing; San Saba's boots advanced, quite slowly, each slap and squeal of leather cutting a deeper furrow into her nerves. He passed behind her, he stopped. The fallen man's breath came in tremendous gulps. There was one more shot, and then utter silence descended upon the glade, and the girl sat on her knees, hands over her face as if she was praying. Out of that silence, as long as a century, came San Saba's brittle words.
"Yo' have nothin' to fear from me, ma'm. I don't traffic in women."
She thought she heard a shuttering sound away down the slope. San Saba spoke a little more quickly. "Ma'm, yo' got nothin' to fear. Stand up. Did the dawg do an—?"
There was a break to the sentence. She looked up to see the man facing north, slightly bent, and his little eyes running back and forth over the trees. The drumming became plainer, more insistent, brush broke and crackled. San Saba shook his head at her. "Keep still. No sound from yo'." He retreated and presently was in the thicket. Lorena got to her feet, meaning to run over and meet the oncoming horsemen; before she could move Gillette swept into the clearing, hatless, and a streak of crimson fresh on his face. Lorena flung up her arms, crying, "Tom—look out—watch the bushes!"
She saw him sway. A shot blasted the glade. Gillette was pat against his saddle, gun speaking along the far side of his horse. There was a rumbling yell, and Quagmire spurred on across the opening. More shots ran into each other, and a swift exchange of words rumbled and died out there beyond sight. The brush smashed, Quagmire sounded again, farther off; at this Tom slipped from his saddle and gathered the girl toward him, saying not a word.
Quagmire returned, wrath simmering on his morose face. "San Saba. Pullin' consid'ble leather. Waitin' to take a bite at yo', Tom. Looks like he got a stray skunk befo' he lit out, though. Durnedest fella ever I met. One shot an' run. Shucks, I couldn't ketch him with this hay burner."
"Let's turn back," said Gillette. He stepped around the girl, shielding her from the sight of the dead Lispenard; he put her into his own saddle and took the dead man's horse. The three of them rode down the slope single file.
"One chore done, another to do," murmured Quagmire. "Allus a little bit o' scandal left over. It ain't creation's pu'pose ever to let mortal man get a square deal. All we do from cradle to grave is play a rigged game. Ain't it foolish?"
XVII. ALL TRAILS CROSS
They came back to the cabin. The horses and wagon stood in the clearing, the preacher sat on a stump trimming himself a switch; and when Lorena saw him her tired, troubled face turned to Tom in a mute appeal. He helped her to the ground, murmuring:
"I know it's been a mighty hard day. Can't blame you for not wanting to be married after all this water's gone under the bridge. If you'd rather postpone