Just before the dusk enveloped Okar, Banker Maison closed the desk in his private office and lit a cigar. He leaned back in the big desk chair, slowly smoking, a complacent smile on his lips, his eyes glowing with satisfaction.
For Maison's capacity for pleasure was entirely physical. He got more enjoyment out of a good dinner and a fragrant cigar than many intellectual men get out of the study of a literary masterpiece, or a philanthropist out of the contemplation of a charitable deed.
Maison did not delve into the soul of things. The effect of his greed on others he did not consider. That was selfishness, of course, but it was a satisfying selfishness.
It did not occur to him that Mary Bransford, for instance, or Sanderson—or anybody whom he robbed—could experience any emotion or passion over their losses. They might feel resentful, to be sure; but resentment could avail them little—and it didn't bring the dollars back to them.
He chuckled. He was thinking of the Bransfords now—and Sanderson. He had put a wolf on Sanderson's trail—he and Silverthorn; and Sanderson would soon cease to bother him.
He chuckled again; and he sat in the chair at the desk, hugely enjoying himself until the cigar was finished. Then he got up, locked the doors, and went upstairs.
Peggy Nyland had not recovered consciousness. The woman who was caring for the girl sat near an open window that looked out upon Okar's one street when Maison entered the room.
Maison asked her if there was any change; was told there was not. He stood for an instant at the window, mentally anathematizing Dale for bringing the girl to his rooms, and for keeping her there; then he dismissed the woman, who went down the stairs, opened the door that Maison had locked, and went outside.
He stood for an instant longer at the window; then he turned and looked down at Peggy, stretched out, still and white, on the bed.
Maison looked long at her, and decided it was not remarkable that Dale had become infatuated with Peggy, for the girl was handsome.
Maison had never bothered with women, and he yielded to a suspicion of sentiment as he looked down at Peggy. But, as always, the sentiment was not spiritual.
Dale had intimated that the girl was his mistress. Well, he was bound to acknowledge that Dale had good taste in such matters, anyway.
The expression of Maison's face was not good to see; there was a glow in his eyes that, had Peggy seen it, would have frightened her.
And if Maison had been less interested in Peggy, and with his thoughts of Dale, he would have heard the slight sound at the door; he would have seen Ben Nyland standing there in the deepening dusk, his eyes aflame with the wild and bitter passions of a man who had come to kill.
Maison did not see, nor did he hear until Ben leaped for him. Then Maison heard him, felt his presence, and realized his danger.
He turned, intending to escape down the other stairway. He was too late.
Ben caught him midway between the bed and the door that opened to the stairway, and his big hands went around the banker's neck, cutting short his scream of terror and the incoherent mutterings which followed it.
Peggy Nyland had been suffering mental torture for ages, it seemed to her. Weird and grotesque thoughts had followed one another in rapid succession through her brain. The thing had grown so vivid—the horrible imaginings had seemed so real, that many times she had been on the verge of screaming. Each time she tried to scream, however, she found that her jaws were tightly set, her teeth clenched, and she could get no sound through them.
Lately, though—it seemed that it had been for hours—she had felt a gradual lessening of the tension. Within the last few hours she had heard voices near her; had divined that persons were near her. But she had not been certain. That is, until within a few minutes.
Then it seemed to her that she heard some giant body threshing around near her; she heard a stifled scream and incoherent mutterings. The thing was so close, the thumping and threshing so real, that she started and sat up in bed, staring wildly around.
She saw on the floor near her two men. One had his hands buried in the other's throat, and the face of the latter was black and horribly bloated.
This scene, Peggy felt, was real, and again she tried to scream.
The effort was successful, though the sound was not loud. One of the men turned, and she knew him.
"Ben," she said in an awed, scared voice, "what in God's name are you doing?"
"Killin' a snake!" he returned sullenly.
"Dale?" she inquired wildly. Her hands were clasped, the fingers working, twisting and untwisting.
"Maison," he told her, his face dark with passion.
"Because of me! O, Ben! Maison has done nothing to me. It was Dale, Ben—Dale came to our place and attacked me. I felt him carrying me—taking me somewhere. This—this place——"
"Is Maison's rooms," Ben told her. In his eyes was a new passion; he knelt beside the bed and stroked the girl's hair.
"Dale, you said—Dale. Dale hurt you? How?"
She told him, and he got up, a cold smile on his face.
"You feel better now, eh? You can be alone for a few minutes? I'll send someone to you."
He paid no attention to her objections, to her plea that she was afraid to be alone. He grinned at her, the grin that had been on his face when he had shot Dal Colton, and backed away from her until he reached the stairs.
Outside he mounted his horse and visited several saloons. There was no sign of Dale. In the City Hotel he came upon a man who told him that earlier in the day Dale had organized a posse and had gone to the Double A to arrest Sanderson. This man was not a friend of Dale's, and one of the posse had told him of Dale's plan.
Nyland mounted his horse again and headed it for the neck of the basin. In his heart was the same lust that had been there while he had been riding toward Okar.
And in his soul was a rage that had not been sated by the death of the banker who, a few minutes before Nyland's arrival, had been so smugly reviewing the pleasurable incidents of his life.
Barney Owen was tying the knot of the rope more securely when he heard the bolt on the pantry door shoot back. He wheeled swiftly, to see Mary Bransford emerging from the pantry, her hands covering her face in a vain endeavor to shut from sight the grisly horror she had confronted when she had reached her feet after recovering consciousness.
Evidently she had no knowledge of what had occurred, for when at a sound Owen made and she uncovered her eyes, she saw Owen and instantly fainted.
Owen dove forward and caught her as she fell, and then with a strength that was remarkable in his frail body he carried her to the lounge in the parlor.
Ho was compelled to leave her there momentarily, for he still entertained fears that Dale would escape the loop of the rope. So he ran into the pantry, looked keenly at Dale, saw that, to all appearances, he was in the last stages of strangulation, and then went out again, to return to Mary.
But before he left Dale he snatched the man's six-shooter from its sheath, for his own had been lost in the confusion of the rush of Dale's men for the door.
Mary was sitting up on the lounge when Owen returned. She was pale, and a haunting fear, cringing, abject, was in her eyes.
She got to her feet when she saw Owen and ran to him, crying.
Owen tried to comfort her, but his words were futile.
"You be brave, little woman!" he said. "You must be brave! Sanderson and the other men are in danger, and I've got to go to Okar for help!"
"I'll go with you," declared the girl. "I can't stay here—I won't. I can't stand being in the same house with—with that!" She pointed to the kitchen.
"All right," Owen said resignedly; "we'll both go. What did you do with the money?"
Mary disclosed the hiding place, and Owen took the money, carried it to the bunkhouse, where he stuffed it into the bottom of a tin food box. Then, hurriedly, he saddled and bridled two horses and led them to where Mary was waiting on the porch.
Mounting, they rode fast toward Okar—the little man's face working nervously, a great eagerness in his heart to help the man for whom he had conceived a deep affection.
Banker Maison had made no mistake when he had told Sanderson that Judge Graney was honest. Graney looked honest. There was about him an atmosphere of straightforwardness that was unmistakable and convincing. It was because he was honest that a certain governor had sent him to Okar.
And Graney had vindicated the governor's faith in him. Whenever crime and dishonesty raised their heads in Okar, Judge Graney pinned them to the wall with the sword of justice, and called upon all men to come and look upon his deeds.
Maison, Silverthorn, and Dale—and others of their ilk—seldom called upon the judge for advice. They knew he did not deal in their kind. Through some underground channel they had secured a deputyship for Dale, and upon him they depended for whatever law they needed to further their schemes.
Judge Graney was fifty—the age of experience. He knew something of men himself. And on the night that Maison and Sanderson had come to him, he thought he had seen in Sanderson's eyes a cold menace, a threat, that meant nothing less than death for the banker, if the latter had refused to write the bill of sale.
For, of course, the judge knew that the banker was being forced to make out the bill of sale. He knew that from the cold determination and alert watchfulness in Sanderson's eyes; he saw it in the white nervousness of the banker.
And yet it was not his business to interfere, or to refuse to attest the signatures of the men. He had asked Maison to take the oath, and the banker had taken it.
Thus it seemed he had entered into the contract in good faith. If he had not, and there was something wrong about the deal, Maison had recourse to the law, and the judge would have aided him.
But nothing had come of it; Maison had said nothing, had lodged no complaint.
But the judge had kept the case in mind.
Late in the afternoon of the day on which Dale had organized the posse to go to the Double A, Judge Graney sat at his desk in the courtroom. The room was empty, except for a court attache, who was industriously writing at a little desk in the rear of the room.
The Maison case was in the judge's mental vision, and he was wondering why the banker had not complained, when the sheriff of Colfax entered.
Graney smiled a welcome at him. "You don't get over this way very often, Warde, but when you do, I'm glad to see you. Sit on the desk—that's your usual place, anyway."
Warde followed the suggestion about the desk; he sat on it, his legs dangling. There was a glint of doubt and anxiety in his eyes.
"What's wrong, Warde?" asked the judge.
"Plenty," declared Warde. "I've come to you for advice—and perhaps for some warrants. You recollect some time ago there was a herd of cattle lost in Devil's Hole—and some men. Some of the men were shot, and one or two of them went down under the herd when it stampeded."
"Yes," said the judge, "I heard rumors of it. But those things are not uncommon, and I haven't time to look them up unless the cases are brought formally to my attention."
"Well," resumed Warde, "at the time there didn't seem to be any clue to work on that would indicate who had done the killing. We've nothing to do with the stampede, of course—that sort of stuff is out of my line. But about the shooting of the men. I've got evidence now."
"Go ahead," directed the judge.
"Well, on the night of the killing two of my men were nosing around the level near Devil's Hole, trying to locate a horse thief who had been trailed to that section. They didn't find the horse thief, but they saw a bunch of men sneaking around a camp fire that belonged to the outfit which was trailin' the herd that went down in Devil's Hole.
"They didn't interfere, because they didn't know what was up. But they saw one of the men stampede the herd, and they saw the rest of them do the killing."
"Who did the killing?"
"Dale and his gang," declared the sheriff.
Judge Graney's eyes glowed. He sat erect and looked hard at the sheriff.
"Who is Sanderson?" he asked.
"That's the fellow who bossed the trail herd."
The judge smiled oddly. "There were three thousand head of cattle?"
Warde straightened. "How in hell do you know?" he demanded.
"Banker Maison paid for them," he said gently.
He related to Warde the incident of the visit of Sanderson and the banker, and the payment to Sanderson by Maison of the ninety thousand dollars.
At the conclusion of the recital Warde struck the desk with his fist.
"Damned if I didn't think it was something like that!" he declared. "But I wasn't going to make a holler until I was sure. But Sanderson knew, eh? He knew all the time who had done the killing, and who had planned it. Game, eh? He was playing her a lone hand!"
The sheriff was silent for a moment, and then he spoke again, a glow of excitement in his eyes. "But there'll be hell to pay about this! If Sanderson took ninety thousand dollars away from Maison, Maison was sure to tell Dale and Silverthorn about it—for they're as thick as three in a bed. And none of them are the kind of men to stand for that kind of stuff from anybody—not even from a man like Sanderson!"
"We've got to do something, Judge! Give me warrants for the three of them—Dale, Maison, and Silverthorn, and I'll run them in before they get a chance to hand Sanderson anything!"
Judge Graney called the busy clerk and gave him brief instructions. As the latter started toward his desk there was a sound at the door, and Barney Owen came in, breathing heavily.
Barney's eyes lighted when they rested upon the sheriff, for he had not hoped to see him there. He related to them what had happened at the Double A that day, and how Dale's men had followed Sanderson and the others to "wipe them out" if they could.
"That settles it!" declared the sheriff. He was outside in an instant, running here and there in search of men to form a posse. He found them, scores of them; for in all communities where the law is represented, there are men who take pride in upholding it.
So it was with Okar. When the law-loving citizens of the town were told what had occurred they began to gather around the sheriff from all directions—all armed and eager. And yet it was long after dusk before the cavalcade of men turned their horses' heads toward the neck of the basin, to begin the long, hard ride over the plains to the spot where Sanderson, Williams, and the others had been ambushed by Dale's men.
A rumor came to the men, however, just before they started, which made several of them look at one another—for there had been those who had seen Ben Nyland riding down the street toward Maison's bank in the dusk, his face set and grim and a wild light in his eyes.
"Maison has been guzzled—he's deader than a salt mackerel!" came the word, leaping from lip to lip.
Sheriff Warde grinned. "Serves him right," he declared; "that's one less for us to hang!"
After the departure of Barney Owen and Mary Bransford, the Double A ranchhouse was as silent as any house, supposed to be occupied by a dead man, could be.
But after a few minutes, if one had looked over the top of the partition from which Owen had hanged Alva Dale, one might have seen Dale move a little. One might have been frightened, but if one had stayed there, it would have been to see Dale move again.
The first time he moved he had merely placed his feet upon the floor, to rest himself. The second movement resulted in him raising his smashed hands and lifting the noose from his neck.
He threw it viciously from him after removing it, so that it flew over the top of the partition and swished sinuously upon the floor of the kitchen.
For Barney Owen had not done a good job in hanging Dale. For when Barney had run across the kitchen with the rope, to tie it to the fastenings of the door, it had slacked a little, enough to permit Dale's toes to touch the floor of the pantry.
Feeling the slack, Dale had taken advantage of it, throwing his head forward a little, to keep the rope taut while Owen fastened it. All that had been involuntary with Dale.
For, at that time Dale had had no thought of trying to fool Owen—he had merely taken what chance had given him. And when the first shock of the thing was over he had begun his attempts to reach the top of the partition in order to slacken the rope enough to get it over his head—for at that time he did not know that already the rope was slack enough.
It was not until after his hands had been smashed and he had dropped to the floor again, that he realized that he might have thrown the rope off at once.
Then it was too late for him to do anything, for he felt Owen above him, at the top of the partition, and he thought Owen had a gun. So he feigned strangulation, and Owen had been deceived.
And when Owen had entered the pantry, Dale still continued to feign strangulation, letting his body sag, and causing a real pressure on his neck. He dared not open his eyes to see if Owen had a weapon, for then the little man, having a gun, would have quickly finished the work that, seemingly, the rope had begun.
Dale might have drawn his own gun, taking a long chance of hitting Owen, but he was at a great disadvantage because of the condition of his hands, and he decided not to.
Dale heard Owen and Mary go out; he heard the clatter of hoofs as they rode away. Then he emerged from the pantry, and through a window watched the two as they rode down the slope of the basin.
Then Dale yielded to the bitter disappointment that oppressed him, and cursed profanely, going from room to room and vengefully kicking things out of his way while bandaging his smashed hands.
In the parlor he overturned the lounge and almost kicked it to pieces searching for the money Mary had told him was concealed there.
"The damned hussy!" he raged, when he realized that the money was not in the lounge.
He went out, got on his horse, and rode across the level back of the house, and up the slope leading to the mesa, where he had seen Sanderson riding earlier in the day.
For an hour he rode, warily, for he did not want to come upon Sanderson unawares—if his men had not intercepted his enemy; and then reaching the edge of a section of hilly country, he halted and sat motionless in the saddle.
For, from some distance ahead of him he heard the reports of firearms, and over him, at the sound, swept a curious reluctance to go any farther in that direction.
For it seemed to him there was something forbidding in the sound; it was as though the sounds carried to him on the slight breeze were burdened with an evil portent; that they carried a threat and a warning.
He sat long there, undecided, vacillating. Then he shuddered, wheeled his horse, and sent him scampering over the back trail.
He rode to the Bar D. His men—the regular punchers—were working far down in the basin, and there was no one in the house.
He sat for hours alone in his office, waiting for news of the men he had sent after Sanderson; and as the interval of their absence grew longer the dark forebodings that had assailed him when within hearing distance of the firing seized him again—grew more depressing, and he sat, gripping the arms of his chair, a clammy perspiration stealing over him.
He shook off the feeling at last, and stood up, scowling.
"That's what a man gets for givin' up to a damn fool notion like that," he said, thinking of the fear that had seized him while listening to the shooting. "Once a man lets on he's afraid, the thing keeps a workin' on him till he's certain sure he's a coward. Them boys didn't need me, anyway—they'll get Sanderson."
So he justified his lack of courage, and spent some hours reading. But at last the strain grew too great, and as the dusk came on he began to have thoughts of Dal Colton. Ben Nyland must have reached home by this time. Had Colton succeeded?
He thought of riding to Nyland's ranch, but he gave up that idea when he reasoned that perhaps Colton had failed, and in that case Nyland wouldn't be the most gentle person in the world to face on his own property.
If Colton had succeeded he would find him, in Okar. So he mounted his horse and rode to Okar.
The town seemed to be deserted when he dismounted in front of the City Hotel. He did not go inside the building, merely looking in through one of the windows, and seeing a few men in there, playing cards in a listless manner. He did not see Colton.
He looked into several other windows. Colton was nowhere to be seen. In several places Dale inquired about him. No one had seen Colton that day.
No one said anything to Dale about what had happened. Perhaps they thought he knew. At any rate, Dale heard no word of what had transpired during his absence. Men spoke to him, or nodded—and looked away, to look at him when his back was turned.
All this had its effect on Dale. He noted the restraint, he felt the atmosphere of strangeness. But he blamed it all on the queer premonition that had taken possession of his senses. It was not Okar that looked strange, nor the men, it was himself.
He went to the bank building and entered the rear door, clumping heavily up the stairs, for he felt a heavy depression. When he opened the door at the top of the stairs night had come. A kerosene lamp on a table in the room blinded him for an instant, and he stood, blinking at it.
When his eyes grew accustomed to the glare he saw Peggy Nyland sitting up in bed, looking at him.
She did not say anything, but continued to look at him. There was wonder in her eyes, and Dale saw it. It was wonder over Dale's visit—over his coming to Okar. Ben must have missed him, for Dale was alive! Dale could not have heard what had happened.
"You're better, eh?" said Dale.
She merely nodded her reply, and watched Dale as he crossed the room.
Reaching a door that led into another room, Dale turned.
"Where's Maison?"
Peggy pointed at the door on whose threshold Dale stood.
Dale entered. What he saw in the room caused him to come out again, his face ashen.
"What's happened?" he demanded hoarsely, stepping to the side of the bed and looking down at Peggy.
Peggy told him. The man's face grew gray with the great fear that clutched him, and he stepped back; then came forward again, looking keenly at the girl as though he doubted her.
"Nyland killed him—choked him to death?" he said.
Peggy nodded silently. The cringing fear showing in the man's eyes appalled her. She hated him, and he had done this thing to her, but she did not want the stigma of another killing on her brother's name.
"Look here, Dale!" she said. "You'd better get out of here—and out of the country! Okar is all stirred up over what you have done. Sheriff Warde was in Okar and had a talk with Judge Graney. Warde knows who killed those men at Devil's Hole, and he is going to hang them. You are one of them; but you won't hang if Ben catches you. And he is looking for you! You'd better go—and go fast!"
For an instant Dale stood, looking at Peggy, searching her face and probing her eyes for signs that she was lying to him. He saw no such signs. Turning swiftly, he ran down the stairs, out into the street, and mounting, with his horse already running, he fled toward the basin and the Bar D.
He had yielded entirely to the presentiment of evil that had tortured him all day.
All his schemes and plots for the stealing of the Double A and Nyland's ranch were forgotten in the frenzy to escape that had taken possession of him, and he spurred his horse to its best efforts as he ran—away from Okar; as he fled from the vengeance of those forces which his evilness had aroused.
After Sanderson shot the big man who had tried to rush him, there was a silence in the defile. Those of Dale's men who had positions of security held them, not exposing themselves to the deadly fire of Sanderson and the others.
For two hours Sanderson clung to his precarious position in the fissure, until his muscles ached with the strain and his eyes blurred because of the constant vigil. But he grimly held the place, knowing that upon him depended in a large measure the safety of the men on the opposite side of the defile.
The third hour was beginning when Sanderson saw a puff of smoke burst from behind a rock held by one of his men; he heard the crash of a pistol, and saw one of Dale's men flop into view from behind a rock near him.
Sanderson's smile was a tribute to the vigilance of his men. Evidently the Dale man, fearing Sanderson's inaction might mean that he was seeking a new position from where he could pick off more of his enemies, had shifted his own position so no part of his body was exposed to Sanderson.
He had wriggled around too far, and the shot from Sanderson's man had been the result.
The man was not dead; Sanderson could see him writhing. He was badly wounded, too, and Sanderson did not shoot, though he could have finished him.
But the incident drew Sanderson's attention to the possibilities of a new position. He had thought at first that he had climbed as high in the fissure as he dared without exposing himself to the fire of the Dale men; but examining the place again he saw that he might, with exceeding caution, take another position about twenty feet farther on.
He decided to try. Letting himself down until his feet struck a flat rock projection, he rested. Then, the weariness dispersed, he began to climb, shoving his rifle between his body and the cartridge belt around his waist.
It took him half an hour to reach the point he had decided upon, and by that time the sun had gone far down into the hazy western distance, and a glow—saffron and rose and violet—like a gauze curtain slowly descending—warned him that twilight was not far away.
Sanderson determined to finish the battle before the darkness could come to increase the hazard, and when he reached the spot in the fissure he hurriedly took note of the strategical points of the position.
There was not much concealment for his body. He was compelled to lie flat on his stomach to be certain that no portion of his body was exposed; and he found a place in a little depression at the edge of the fissure that seemed suitable. Then he raised his head above the little ridge that concealed him from his enemies.
He saw them all—every man of them. Some of them were crouching; some were lying prone—apparently resting; still others were sitting, their backs against their protection—waiting.
Sanderson took his rifle by the barrel and with the stock forced a channel through some rotted rock on the top of the little ridge that afforded him concealment. When he had dug the channel deeply enough—so that he could aim the weapon without exposing his head—he stuck the rifle barrel into the channel and shouted to the Dale men:
"This game is played out, boys! I'm behind you. You can't hide any longer. I give you fair warning that if you don't come out within a minute, throwin' your guns away an' holdin' up your hands, I'll pick you off, one by one! That goes!"
There was sincerity in Sanderson's voice, but the men doubted. Sanderson saw them look around, but it was plain to him that they could not tell from which direction his voice came.
"Bluffin'!" scoffed a man who was in plain view of Sanderson; the very man, indeed, upon whom Sanderson had his rifle trained.
"Bluffin', eh?" replied Sanderson grimly. "I've got a bead on you. At the end of one minute—if you don't toss your guns away and step out, holdin' up your hands, I'll bore you—plenty!"
Half a minute passed and the man did not move. He was crouching, and his gaze swept the edge of the fissure from which Sanderson's voice seemed to come. His face was white, his eyes wide with the fear of death.
Just when it seemed that Sanderson must shoot to make his statement and threat convincing, the man shouted:
"This game's too certain—for me, I'm through!"
He threw his weapons away, so that they went bounding and clattering to the foot of the slope. Then he again faced the fissure, shouting:
"I know I've caved, an' you know I've caved. But what about them guys on the other side, there? They'll be blowin' me apart if I go to showin' myself."
Sanderson called to Williams and the others, telling them the men were going to surrender, and warning them to look out for treachery.
"If one of them tries any monkey-shines, nail him!" he ordered. "There's eleven of them that ain't been touched—an' some more that ain't as active as they might be. But they can bend a gun handy enough. Don't take any chances!"
Sanderson ordered the man to step out. He did so, gingerly, as though he expected to be shot. When he was in plain view of Sanderson's men, Sanderson ordered him to descend the slope and stand beside a huge rock ledge. He watched while the man descended; then he called to the others:
"Step up an' take your medicine! One at a time! Guns first. Williams!" he called. "You get their guns as fast as they come down. I'll see that none of them plug you while you're doin' it!"
There was no hitch in the surrender; and no attempt to shoot Williams. One by one the men dropped their weapons down the slope.
When all the men had reached the bottom of the defile Sanderson climbed down and asked the first man who had surrendered where they had left their horses. The animals were brought, and the men forced to mount them. Then, the Dale men riding ahead, Sanderson and the others behind, they began the return trip.
When they reached the open country above the defile, Sanderson rode close to Williams.
"There's enough of you to take care of this gang," he said, indicating the prisoners; "I'm goin' to hit the breeze to the Double A an' see what's happened there!"
"Sure!" agreed Williams. "Beat it!"
When Streak got the word he leaped forward at a pace that gave Williams an idea of how he had gained his name. He flashed by the head of the moving columns and vanished into the growing darkness, running with long, swift, sure leaps that took him over the ground like a feather before a hurricane.
But fast as he went, he did not travel too rapidly for Sanderson. For in Sanderson's heart also lurked a premonition of evil. But he did not fear it; it grimmed his lips, it made his eyes blaze with a wanton, savage fire; it filled his heart with a bitter passion to slay the man who had stayed behind at the Double A ranchhouse.
And he urged Streak to additional effort, heading him recklessly through sections of country where a stumble meant disaster, lifting him on the levels, and riding all the time with only one thought in mind—speed, speed, speed.
Riding the hard trail through the basin, from its neck at Okar to the broad, upward slope that led to the Double A ranchhouse, came another man, who also was sacrificing everything to speed. His horse was fresh, and he spared it not at all as he swept in long, smooth, swift undulations over the floor of the basin.
Ben Nyland's lips were as straight and hard as were those of the other man who was racing toward the Double A from another direction; his face was as grim, and his thoughts were as bitter and savage.
When he reached the bottom of the long, gentle slope that stretched to the Double A ranchhouse he did not spare his horse. The terrible spurs sank in again and again, stirring the animal to a frenzy of effort, and he rushed up the slope as though it were a level, snorting with pain and fury, but holding the pace his rider demanded of him.
And when he reached the corral fence near the Double A ranchhouse, and his rider dismounted and ran forward, the horse heaved a sigh of relief and stood, bracing his legs to keep from falling, his breath coming in terrific heaves.
An instant after his arrival Ben Nyland was in side the Double A ranchhouse, pistol in hand. He tore through the rooms in the darkness, stumbling over the furniture, knocking it hither and there as it interfered with his progress.
He found no one. Accidentally colliding with the table in the kitchen, he searched its top and discovered thereon a kerosene lamp. Lighting it with fingers that trembled, he looked around him.
There were signs of the confusion that had reigned during the day. He saw on the floor the rope that had encircled Dale's neck—one end of it was tied to the fastenings of the kitchen door.
The tied rope was a mystery to Nyland, but it suggested hanging to his thoughts, already lurid, and he leaped for the pantry. There he grimly viewed the wreck and turned away, muttering.
"He's been here an' gone," he said, meaning Dale; "them's his marks—ruin."
Blowing out the light he went to the front door, paused in it and then went out upon the porch, from where he could look northeastward at the edge of the mesa surmounting the big slope that merged into the floor of the basin.
Faintly outlined against the luminous dark blue of the sky, he caught the leaping silhouette of a horse and rider. He grinned coldly, and stepped back into the shadow of the doorway.
"That's him, damn him!" he said. "He's comin' back!"
He had not long to wait. He saw the leaping silhouette disappear, seeming to sink into the earth, but he knew that horse and rider were descending the slope; that it would not be long before they would thunder up to the ranchhouse—and he gripped the butt of his gun until his fingers ached.
He saw a blot appear from the dark shadows of the slope and come rushing toward him. He could hear the heave and sob of the horse's breath as it ran, and in another instant the animal came to a sliding halt near the edge of the porch, the rider threw himself out of the saddle and ran forward.
At the first step taken by the man after he reached the porch edge, he was halted by Nyland's sharp:
"Hands up!"
And at the sound of the other's voice the newcomer cried out in astonishment:
"Ben Nyland! What in hell are you doin' here?"
"Lookin' for Dale," said the other, hoarsely. "Thought you was him, an' come pretty near borin' you. What saved you was a notion I had of wantin' Dale to know what I was killin' him for! Pretty close, Deal!"
"Why do you want to kill him?"
"For what he done to Peggy—damn him! He sneaked into the house an' hurt her head, draggin' her to Okar—to Maison's. I've killed Maison, an' I'll kill him!"
"He ain't here, then—Dale ain't?" demanded Sanderson.
"They ain't nobody here," gruffly announced Nyland. "They've been here, an' gone. Dale, most likely. The house looks like a twister had struck it!"
Sanderson was inside before Nyland ceased speaking. He found the lamp, lit it, and looked around the interior, noting the partially destroyed lounge and the other wrecked furniture, strewn around the rooms. He went out again and met Nyland on the porch.
One look at Sanderson told Nyland what was in the latter's mind, and he said:
"He's at the Bar D, most likely. We'll get him!"
"I ain't takin' no chance of missin' him," Sanderson shot back at Nyland as they mounted their horses; "you fan it to Okar an' I'll head for his shack!"
Nyland's agreement to this plan was manifested by his actions. He said nothing, but rode beside Sanderson for a mile or so, then he veered off and rode at an angle which would take him to the neck of the basin, while Sanderson, turning slightly northward, headed Streak for Dale's ranch.
Halfway between the Double A and the neck of the basin, Nyland came upon the sheriff and his posse. The posse halted Nyland, thinking he might be Dale, but upon discovering the error allowed the man to proceed—after he had told them that Sanderson was safe and was riding toward the Bar D. Sanderson, Nyland said, was after Dale. He did not say that he, too, wanted to see Dale.
"Dale!" mocked the sheriff, "Barney Owen hung him!"
"Dale's alive, an' in Okar—or somewhere!" Nyland flung back at them as he raced toward town.
"I reckon we might as well go back," said the sheriff to his men. "The clean-up has took place, an' it's all over—or Sanderson wouldn't be back. We'll go back to Okar an' have a talk with Silverthorn. An' mebbe, if Dale's around, we'll run into him."
The posse, led by the sheriff, returned to Okar. Within five minutes after his arrival in town the sheriff was confronting Silverthorn in the latter's office in the railroad station. The posse waited.
"It comes to this, Silverthorn," said the sheriff. "We ain't got any evidence that you had a hand in killing those men at Devil's Hole. But there ain't a man—an honest man—in town that ain't convinced that you did have a hand in it. What I want to say to you is this:
"Sanderson and Nyland are running maverick around the country tonight. Nyland has killed Maison and is hunting for Dale. Sanderson and his men have cleaned up the bunch of guys that went out this morning to wipe Sanderson out. And Sanderson is looking for Dale. And after he gets Dale he'll come for you, for he's seeing red, for sure.
"I ain't interfering. This is one of the times when the law don't see anything—and don't want to see anything. I won't touch Nyland for killing Maison, and I won't lay a finger on Sanderson if he shoots the gizzard out of you. There's a train out of here in fifteen minutes. I give you your chance—take the train or take your chance with Sanderson!"
"I'll take the train," declared Silverthorn.
Fifteen minutes later, white and scared, he was sitting in a coach, cringing far back into one of the seats, cursing, for it seemed to him that the train would never start.
Dale did not miss Ben Nyland by more than a few hundred yards as he passed through the neck of the basin. But the men could not see each other in the black shadows cast by the somber mountains that guarded the entrance to the basin, and so they sped on, one headed away from Okar and one toward it, each man nursing his bitter thoughts; one intent on killing and the other riding to escape the death that, he felt, was imminent.
Dale reached the Bar D and pulled the saddle and bridle from his horse. He caught up a fresh animal, threw saddle and bridle on him, and then ran into the house to get some things that he thought might be valuable to him.
He came out again, and nervously paused on the threshold of the door to listen.
A sound reached his ears—the heavy drumming of a horse's hoofs on the hard sand in the vicinity of the ranchhouse; and Dale gulped down his fear as he ran to his horse, threw himself into the saddle and raced around a corner of the house.
He had hardly vanished into the gloom of the night when another rider burst into view.
The second rider was Sanderson. He did not halt Streak at the door of the Bar D ranchhouse, for from a distance he had seen a man throw himself upon a horse and dash away, and he knew of no man in the basin, except Dale, who would find it necessary to run from his home in that fashion.
So he kept Streak in the dead run he had been in when approaching the house, and when he reached the corner around which Dale had vanished, he saw his man, two or three hundred yards ahead, flashing across a level toward the far side of the big basin.
He knew that Dale thought his pursuer was Nyland, and that thought gave Sanderson a grim joy. In Sanderson's mind was a picture of Dale's face—of the stark, naked astonishment that would be on it when he discovered that it was Sanderson and not Nyland who had caught him.
For Sanderson would catch him—he was convinced of that.
The conviction became strengthened when, after half an hour's run, Streak had pulled up on Dale. Sanderson could see that Dale's horse was running erratically; that it faltered on the slight rises that they came to now and then. And when Sanderson discovered that Dale's horse was failing, he urged Streak to a faster pace. In an hour the space between the two riders had become less. They were climbing the long, gradual slope that led upward out of the basin when Dale's horse stumbled and fell, throwing Dale out of the saddle.
There was something horribly final in the manner of Dale's falling, for he tumbled heavily and lay perfectly quiet afterward. His horse, after rising, stumbled on a few steps and fell again.
Sanderson, fully alive to the danger of haste, rode slowly toward the fallen man. He was taking no chances, for Dale might be shamming in an effort to shoot Sanderson as he came forward.
But Dale was not shamming. Dismounting and drawing his pistol, Sanderson went forward. Dale did not move, and when at last Sanderson stood over the fallen man he saw that his eyes were closed and that a great gash had been cut in his forehead near the right temple.
Sanderson saw that the man was badly hurt, but to make sure of him he drew Dale's pistol from its sheath and searched his clothing for other weapons—finding another pistol in a pocket, and a knife in a belt. These he threw into some brush near by, and then he bent over the man.
Dale was unconscious, and despite all Sanderson could do, he remained so.
Sanderson examined the wound in his temple, and discovered that it was deep and ragged—such a wound as a jagged stone might make.
It was midnight when Sanderson ceased his efforts and decided that Dale would die. He pitied the man, but he felt no pang of regret, for Dale had brought his death upon himself. Sanderson wondered, standing there, looking down at Dale, whether he would have killed the man. He decided that he would have killed him.
"But that ain't no reason why I should let him die after he's had an accident," he told himself. "I'll get him to Okar—to the doctor. Then, after the doc patches him up—if he can—an' I still think he needs killing I'll do it."
So he brought Dale's horse near. The animal had had a long rest, and had regained his strength.
Sanderson bent to Dale and lifted his shoulders, so that he might get an arm under him, to carry him to his horse. But at the first movement Dale groaned and opened his eyes, looking directly into Sanderson's.
"Don't!" he said, "for God's sake, don't! You'll break me apart! It's my back—it's broke. I've felt you workin' around me for hours. But it won't do any good—I'm done. I can feel myself goin'."
Sanderson laid him down again and knelt beside him.
"You're Sanderson," said Dale, after a time. "I thought it was Nyland chasin' me for a while. Then I heard you talkin' to your horse an' I knew it was you. Why don't you kill me?"
"I reckon the Lord is doin' that," said Sanderson.
"Yes—He is. Well, the Lord ain't ever done anything for me."
He was silent for a moment. Then:
"I want to tell you somethin', Sanderson. I've tried to hate you, but I ain't never succeeded. I've admired you. I've cussed myself for doin' it, but I couldn't help it. An' because I couldn't hate you, I tried my best to do things that would make you hate me.
"I've deviled Mary Bransford because I thought it would stir you up. I don't care anything for her—it's Peggy Nyland that I like. Mebbe I'd have done the square thing to her—if I'd been let alone—an' if she'd have liked me. Peggy's better, ain't she? When I saw her after—after I saw Maison layin' there, choked to——"
"So you saw Maison—dead, you say?"
"Ben Nyland guzzled him," Dale's lips wreathed in a cynical smile. "Ben thought Maison had brought Peggy to his rooms. You knowed Maison was dead?"
Sanderson nodded.
"Then you must have been to Okar." He groaned. "Where's Ben Nyland?"
"In Okar. He's lookin' for you." Sanderson leaned closer to the man and spoke sharply to him. "Look here, Dale; you were at the Double A. What has become of Mary Bransford?"
"She went away with Barney Owen—to Okar. Nobody hurt her," he said, as he saw Sanderson's eyes glow. "She's all right—she's with her brother."
He saw Sanderson's eyes; they were filled with an expression of incredulity; and a late moon, just showing its rim above the edge of the mesa above them, flooded the slope with a brilliancy that made it possible for Dale to see another expression in Sanderson's eyes—an expression which told him that Sanderson thought his mind was wandering.
He laughed, weakly.
"You think I'm loco, eh? Well, I ain't. Barney Owen ain't Barney Owen at all—he's Will Bransford. I found that out yesterday," he continued, soberly, as Sanderson looked quickly at him. "I had some men down to Tombstone way, lookin' him up.
"When old Bransford showed me the letter that you took away from me, I knew Will Bransford was in Tombstone; an' when Mary sent that thousand to him I set a friend of mine—Gary Miller—onto him. Gary an' two of his friends salivated young Bransford, but he turned up, later, minus the money, in Tombstone. Another friend of mine sent me word—an' a description of him. Barney Owen is Bransford.
"Just what happened to Gary Miller an' his two friends has bothered me a heap," went on Dale.
"They was to come this way, to help me in this deal. But they never showed up."
Sanderson smiled, and Dale's eyes gleamed.
"You know what's become of him!" he charged. "That's where you got that thousand you give to Mary Bransford—an' the papers, showin' that young Bransford was due here. Ain't it?"
"I ain't sayin'," said Sanderson.
"Well," declared Dale, "Barney Owen is Will Bransford. The night Morley got him drunk we went the limit with Owen, an' he talked enough to make me suspicious. That's why I sent to Tombstone to find out how he looked. We had the evidence to show the court at Las Vegas. We was goin' to prove you wasn't young Bransford, an' then we was goin' to put Owen out of the—"
Dale gasped, caught his breath, and stiffened.
Sanderson stayed with him until the dawn, sitting, quietly beside him until the end. Then Sanderson got up, threw the body on Dale's horse, mounted his own, and set out across the basin toward Okar.