to see the prairie again before he went blind. There was a shadow in front of him; he thought it was Lispenard returning to fight. A girl's voice spoke in warning. "No—don't hit at me, Tom! No—Tom, it's all over. He's down. Put your arms around me! Your poor, poor face."
He sat on the ground, a cool hand pressed against his temple and a cloth skirted across his mouth. It was all over, and Lorena was on her knees trying to wipe away the blood. The ringing died out of his ears, he began to feel the ache of his body where terrific blows had punished him. But they were lesser things. Lesser things. It was Lorena who kept doubling back the bandana to find a dry spot; and what was a woman thinking about and what was a woman feeling whose eyes were like this girl's? God alone knew, but that expression would trouble him from now on, sleeping or waking.
"I think," he mumbled, "I'd better smoke. I'm comin' back down the tunnel. For a time I went twenty feet away from myself."
Talking dispelled the mists. He rose uncertainly. "If he'd hit me a few more times I'd be knocking on the gates." He felt light- hearted, without a trace of resentment. The smoke of the cigarette stung the bruises of his lips, and he threw it away. Lispenard was reviving; as for Christine Ballard, she sat very still in the saddle, which reminded him of something.
"Kit, this is Lorena Wyatt, next neighbour to me. Christine Ballard, Lorena. She's a guest from the East."
It seemed a little queer that neither of them spoke—only bowed. He turned away and left them together while he confronted Lispenard. The latter pushed himself upright.
"I could always whip you—until you got stung," he muttered. "All right. No love lost, my boy. And we'll forget about shaking hands, too. I'm not through with this yet."
"I'll donate you the horse," replied Gillette. "Travel in any direction you want—but not back to the ranch. If I see you on my range again I'll use a gun. You're rotten fruit, Blondy. I've suspected it for some time."
He followed Lispenard and stood beside the latter's horse.
"They say it's every man for himself out here," mused Lispenard. "Well, I'll be on my way. But just put this in your bonnet, old-timer: I don't consider it over with. I'll balance the ledger if it takes me a thousand years. Put it down in red ink."
The fight had drained them of animus; so they stood and looked at each other, a world apart in every respect, utter strangers. Then Lispenard got in the saddle and spurred away. Gillette turned to the women.
Neither had spoken a word; all that while they were exchanging glances, Lorena's clear face thoughtfully wrinkled, Christine Ballard sitting very straight on her horse. Lorena made a small motion with her hand and turned to Tom; and it seemed to him she marked him then for whatever he was and stored it in her memory. Never before had she touched him, save to accept his hand, and though he had no reason for it he felt a distinct warning when she brushed his arm with the tips of her fingers. And smiled a crooked little smile. "Tom, heat some water for your face when you get home. And this is the girl?" Her voice sank to the barest whisper. "Oh, I knew it all the time. Even if you didn't tell me." His hat still lay on the ground; she stooped and retrieved it and with just a touch of possession in her gesture she put it on his head. "You've made another enemy and you've gotten more scars—because of me. A woman can cause so much trouble. That's why I wish I were a man."
She ran to her horse and stepped into the saddle. Dust rose up from the turning hoofs. Her hand came out to him and he heard a faint, "Be good, Tom," as she raced away.
Gillette swung up, ranged beside Christine Ballard, and started homeward.
"She's very pretty," observed Christine.
"Yes," said he, turning to look. She was far along the ridge and dipping 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