The tone forbade disobedience or delay. Angus turned to face a gun in the hands of Gavin French. The latter peered at him for a moment and laughed shortly.
"I thought it was you," he said. "Nobody else could have made as good time. You're a good guesser, too. Well—unbuckle your belt with your left hand and let it drop. Keep your right hand up. That's it. Now step away from it."
Having no option Angus obeyed, cursing himself internally for being fooled by the old trick of doubling back. Gavin lowered his gun.
"You can take 'em down," he said. "Now what's the next play?"
"That's up to you," Angus told him.
"Does look like it," the big man admitted. "But you know damned well I can't shoot you in cold blood. If I roped you up here and left you, you might not be found. I can't take you with me. So it's partly up to you. This is hell's own rotten mess from start to finish. I knew it would be, from the time Jerry lost his head and plugged Braden. I suppose he's dead?"
"Yes."
"And Jerry and Larry, too?"
"I think so. I didn't wait to make sure."
"Sure to be," Gavin said calmly. "Jerry came ahead on his face and Larry wilted in a bunch. They got it, all right. I had a fool's luck. Any of your bunch get it hard?"
"I don't think so. We were lucky."
"You sure were. We were going to hold you up to-morrow, if we found a good place, but you got the jump on us. You were closer than we thought. So it seems I'm the only one left, bar Blake, and I don't count him. He quit us yesterday to save his skin. Maybe he was wise, at that."
"Blake is dead."
The big man exclaimed in astonishment. "Dead! How?"
Angus told him. Also he told why he himself had hunted Blake. Gavin French uttered a deep malediction.
"If I had known this," he said, "he would never have come with us. I think I would have handled him myself. But I don't suppose you believe that."
"Yes," Angus returned. "You are a man, and he never was."
Gavin French eyed him for a moment. "I guess you're right—about him, anyway," he said. "He got what was coming to him. Well, that leaves me—and Kathleen." He shook his head moodily. "I tell you straight, Mackay, that I'm not going to be taken. I've stood you up, but I don't know what I'm going to do with you. If you'll give me your word to go back to your bunch and give me that much start, you may pick up your gun and go."
"Will you answer me one question straight?" Angus asked.
"Anything you like," the big man promised. "It won't make much difference now."
"Gavin French, did you kill my father?"
The big man started violently. "Did I—What makes you ask that?"
"You promised me a straight answer. But Braden said so—before he died."
Gavin French did not reply immediately. "Braden was a rotten liar all his life," he said at last. "But I promised you a straight answer, and I keep my word. Yes, I killed your father—at least, I suppose that's what it comes to."
Angus drew a long breath. Its hissing intake was clear in the silence.
"You suppose!" he said. "My father was not armed. Do you think I will let you go, gun or no gun. One of us stays on this summit, Gavin French!"
"In your place I would say just that," Gavin admitted. "But I am going to tell you how it happened; and then I am going to let you take up your gun and do what you like. And just remember that if I wanted to lie I would have done it in the first place."
He paused a moment frowning at Angus.
"The day your father was shot," he began, "I was on the range looking for horses, and I had my rifle. In the afternoon I was riding up the long coulee by Cat Creek when I heard a shot ahead, and in a few minutes I came upon a steer staggering along. Then he rolled over and lay kicking. I got off my horse and saw your brand on him, and that he had been shot. Just then your father came tearing up the coulee. He saw me beside the dead steer, my rifle in my hand, and naturally he thought I had done the killing. He had no earthly use for me, and besides that he and I had some trouble a week before over a two-year-old. So when he rode up I knew there was going to be more trouble, and I was dead right.
"He didn't give me much chance to explain, and he didn't get off his horse. He damned me for a liar and a rustler, and suddenly he reached down and grabbed the barrel of my rifle with both hands. I've often wished I had let him take it, but by that time he was so damned mad that I wasn't going to let him have a gun, and I was pretty hot myself. So I hung onto it and tried to twist it out of his hands. Then his horse started to back. I was dragged along, holding to the gun, and my hold slipped. I swear I don't know how it happened, unless my slipping hand lifted the hammer, but anyway the rifle went off.
"He let go then, and his horse bolted. I didn't know he was badly hurt, because he was riding all right. In fact I wasn't sure he was hit at all. That was the last I saw of him. My own horse was frightened by the shot and it took me some time to catch him. I rode two or three miles looking for your father, but I was afraid that would lead to more trouble, because I thought the first thing he would do would be to organize himself with a gun. So I went home and kept my mouth shut. The next day I heard he was dead. That's all. And there's your gun. If you feel like playing even, go to it."
But Angus as he listened knew that Gavin French was telling the exact truth. He could visualize the tragedy of that bygone day of his boyhood. His father's actions, as related by Gavin, were in exact keeping with his character. But in the end, though convinced that Gavin had fired with intent to kill, he had died in grim silence rather than leave to his son a heritage of hate and revenge.
"I believe it happened as you say it did," he said. "There is nothing to play even for."
The big man sighed deeply. "It's not every man who would believe it," he said; "but it's true. I know I should have come forward and told how it was, then, but I had only my own word. If your father had told anybody about the two-year-old and the words we had had, it would have been bad. So I just kept quiet."
"How did Braden know?"
"From Tenas Pete. I believe that Siwash shot the steer himself and saw what happened. Braden told me the Indian had told him the whole thing. That was a year after, and Pete had broken his neck with a bad cayuse. Braden tried to hold it over me till I put the fear of God in his heart one night when we were alone. I wouldn't do his dirty work, and I didn't know till too late what Blake and Jerry had done. I mean about your ditch. Larry wasn't in that. I couldn't give my brothers away, could I? Oh, it's a rotten mess from start to finish!"
He stared gloomily across the moonlit spaces, frowning heavily.
"So there's the whole thing," he said. "I've felt like telling you before, but what was the use? From first to last my family has done you dirt. Well, I'm the only man left, and I'll pay for the crowd. I'll be the goat. Short of surrendering, which I won't do, I'll give you any satisfaction you like. If you want it with a gun, all right. But we're two big, skookum men. I don't know which of us is the better, though I think I am. If you can best me to-night, in a fair fight without weapons, I'll go back with you; and if I best you you go back alone. What do you say?"
Angus knew that Gavin meant it. The proposal was primitive in conception and simplicity. Perhaps because of that it appealed to him strongly.
"There are not many men who would make that offer," he said.
"I would not make it to any other man," Gavin replied. "Does it go?"
"No."
The big man threw out his hands in a gesture of impatience.
"Then what the devil does?" he demanded. "Why not? You're no more afraid of me than I am of you. What do you want?"
"Nothing," Angus said. "Now that I know how my father died, I have nothing against you. Braden I care nothing about. So I am going back the way I came. But I am glad you do not think me a coward."
Gavin French drew a deep breath and his cold blue eyes for a moment held a curiously soft expression.
"Mackay," he said, "it probably sounds queer, but I have always liked you. And I liked you better after that little fuss we had on Christmas night, for then I knew you were strong as I am strong, and I hoped some day, for the pure fun of it, we might see which of us was the better man. A coward? Lord, no! I know why you are doing this. I'll bet you saw Kathleen."
"Yes," Angus admitted, "I saw her. She told me. But that's not—"
"You needn't lie about it," Gavin said gruffly. "That sort of thing is about all you would lie about. She's a good girl. I—I'm fond of her." He hesitated over the admission. "We were a queer bunch—our family. Stand-off. No slush. Afraid to show that we were fond of each other. That was the way with Kit and me. If I can make this, it will be different in the future. I'm not pulling any repentance stuff, you savvy. What's done is done, and it can't be helped. Well, it's time I was moving."
"How are you fixed for matches and smoking?"
"None too well—if you can spare either."
Angus handed over what he had in his pockets. "I wish you luck," he said. "I hope you make it—clean."
"I'll make it," Gavin replied calmly, "if it's my luck, and if it isn't I won't. It won't make any difference to anybody but Kit. If it wasn't for her I wouldn't care—either way."
"Don't worry about her. We will see that she wants for nothing. Her home will be with us if she will make it there, till you are ready for her."
"That's white of you," Gavin said with something very like emotion in his voice; "but she'd better do as we had arranged. Tell her I'll make it sure. And tell Faith—if you don't mind—that I said her husband was a good man—oh, a damned good man!—every way." He was silent for a moment. "Shake?" he said and held out his hand.
Their grips met hard.
"Well, so long," said Gavin.
"So long," said Angus.
The big man nodded and turned north. Angus turned south. In a hundred paces he looked back. Gavin, already indistinct in the deceptive moonlight was standing at the top of a slight rise doing likewise. He waved his hand, turned, and the rise hid him from view. Though Angus watched for some moments he did not reappear. He had crossed the divide.
Then Angus, too, turned again, and realizing for the first time that the night cold of the height had chilled him to the bone struck a brisk pace down the southern slope; while behind him a rising wind broomed the dry snow of the desolate summit, effacing all trace of the trespassing feet of men.
Angus was riding up to the French ranch. He had just parted from his companions. Their homeward progress had been slow because of the wounded men. Turkey and Rennie had gone on toward the home ranch, and Bush and the other toward town. But he had turned off the trail to see Kathleen. He hated his errand, but it was better that he should tell her than leave it to a stranger. He would be glad to get it over and go home—to Faith.
As he approached the house he saw her. Apparently she had seen him coming, for she came down to greet him. He dismounted stiffly. He felt her eyes searching his face.
"Well?" she queried. He shook his head.
"I am sorry, Kathleen. It is bad news."
"I expected it," she said quietly. "Tell me about it—all!"
He told her the main facts, omitting details. When he had concluded she sat motionless, her eyes on the glory of the evening sky above the western ranges.
"I am sorry," he said again.
"I understand," she said. "You are sorry that it had to be. I knew what might happen if the boys were overtaken. It was inevitable. Well, they made their choice and took their chance, and it went against them. I think Gavin will tell me more than you have told me—some day. Well, this is the end of a good many things. I was merely waiting for word. To-morrow I am going away."
"There is no need. If you would stay with us—"
"I am just as grateful, but it is best not."
"It may be," he admitted. "Is there anything I can do?"
"If you would take Finn? He's too lively for Faith, but he's a good horse. I hate to sell him to a stranger."
"I will buy him."
"You will not buy him. Are you too proud to do me that kindness?"
"No. I will take him and give him a good home all his life."
"Thank you."
"For taking the gift of a good horse?"
"You know better. Finn and I were friends. He—he may miss me a little." For the first time her voice was not quite steady. "To feel that way about a horse!" she said scornfully. "Well, it's something to be missed—even by a horse."
"I shall miss you," Angus told her. Her eyes rested on him gravely for a long moment.
"I know what you mean," she said. "You liked me because I was a frank sort of individual. You may think of me now and then, when there is nothing else on your mind. But as for missing me—pshaw! Nobody will miss me. I had no friends."
It was brutally true. Kathleen French, highly organized, sensitive, proud, had repelled friendships. She had hidden real loneliness under a cloak of indifference. Apparently sufficient unto herself, others had taken her at her own apparent valuation. Her voice was tinged with bitterness. Angus realized vaguely a part of the truth.
"I don't think anybody thought you wanted friends."
"Everybody wants friends," she returned. "Often the people who want them most have not the knack of making them. But I am not complaining. I have always been able to take my medicine without making a very bad face."
"You are a clean, straight, game girl," he said. "One of these days you will marry, and your husband will be a lucky man."
She smiled for the first time, but her mouth twitched slightly.
"I am game enough," she said. "I suppose that goes with the breed—like other things. Oh, yes, I am game enough to run true under punishment. But as for marrying—I don't think so. I was in love once—or thought I was."
"I didn't know about that," Angus said in surprise. "I'm sorry I said anything."
"No, of course you didn't know. Nobody did—not even the man in the case. He married another girl."
"He lost a mighty fine wife," Angus said.
"That's nice of you. But heaven knows what sort of wife I'd have made. The girl he married will suit him better. And now I mustn't keep you, Angus. Faith will be waiting. I won't see either of you again. She hasn't much cause to love me or mine, but she has never shown it by word or look. She is real, Angus, and I hope you will be very happy, both of you, all through life. Some day—oh, a long time hence, when the things that are so real and hard now have been dimmed and softened by the years—I may see you both again. Till then—good-by."
Angus took her strong, firm hand in his, and looked into her somber eyes.
"Good-by," he said, "and thank you for your good wishes. Good luck to you and to Gavin. Tell him that. And remember that anything I can do at any time for either you or him will be done cheerfully."
"I will remember," she said. "I wish you and Gavin had known each other better. You would have been friends. You are both real men."
She knew nothing of Gavin's connection with his father's death, for that was one of several things he had not told her. Another was that he had lied to Bush. He had said that he had found no trace of Gavin. Kathleen stood beside him as he mounted, and when, having ridden a few hundred yards, he turned in the saddle and glanced back she was still standing where he had left her, motionless.
But as the French ranch vanished from view Angus drew a long breath. It was more than the relief from the performance of an unpleasant duty. A chapter seemed to have closed, the old order of things ended, a new one begun.
Already the shadows were falling, the hills purple black against the west. Well, he would be home as fast as a good horse could carry him. Turkey would have told Faith, and she would be waiting for him. He shook the big, gaunted chestnut into a fast lope.
But at a sharp bend he met Faith, almost riding her down.
"Why, old girl!" he cried, while Chief's hoofs slid and grooved the trail and the reliable Doughnut side-stepped expertly. "This is fine!"
"I couldn't wait," she said. "I have been waiting too long already. So when Turkey came home I came to meet you."
"We had to travel slowly. And somebody had to tell Kathleen. I thought it was better that I should."
"I am very sorry for her."
"So am I. But tell me about yourself. How does it feel to be a grass widow?"
"I'm not going to tell you. I've been worried. I suppose I've been silly. But Jean will tell you all about that. She was aways telling me not to worry, cheering me up."
"Has she made it up with Chetwood yet?"
"Well, my goodness!" Faith exclaimed.
"Why, they're not married, are they?"
"No. Why, it went clean out of my mind, but this afternoon when I saw Turkey coming, I ran down to meet him and came around the corner of the wagon shed, and there the two of them were. And they looked as if they had been—well, you know."
"Kissing each other?"
"Yes, it looked like that."
But the ranch came in sight, its broad, fertile acres dim in the fading light. The smell of the fresh earth of fall plowing struck the nostrils, and a tang of wood smoke from new clearing. From the corrals came the voices of cattle. A colt whinnied in youthful falsetto for his dam. All sounds carried far in the hush of evening.
"Seems odd to think this will be broken up," Angus said. "Houses and streets on the good land; maybe a church on that knoll, a school over yonder. I ought to be glad, because it means money. But I'm not."
"I know," his wife nodded wisely. "I've been a wanderer and a city dweller most of my life, but I can understand how the one spot on all the earth may claim a man. And you'll always want a ranch, and stock, and wide spaces, no matter how much money you have. Oh, yes, boy, I know."
"I guess you are right," he admitted. "I grew up that way. Well, there's plenty of time to think it over. I can take another crop off this." He lifted his head and sniffed the air. "Old girl," he said, "I believe I smell grub—real grub—cooking. And I haven't had a real meal for three days. We were sort of shy coming out, you know."
"My heavens!" Faith cried, "Turkey said the same thing. When I left he was telling Mrs. Foley he would marry her for a pie. Let's hurry."
Some hours later Angus, shaven and fed, sat with Faith enjoying rest and tobacco. It was good to lie back in a chair, to relax, to be in a house again protected from the wind and cold, to look forward to a comfortable bed in place of one blanket and such browse as could be scraped into a heap as a dog scrapes leaves and rubbish to lie on. Though he could sleep anywhere, by virtue of youth and a hard body, he appreciated comfort.
Earlier in the evening Jean, Chetwood and Turkey had borne them company. But the two former had gone, followed by caustic comment from the latter. And soon after that young gentleman had announced that Angus and Faith were a darn sight worse, and that he was going to bed.
Left alone, Faith spoke the thing which was in her mind.
"I am glad," she said, "that it was not you who killed Blake."
"I intended to kill him," he replied, "and I would if it had been my luck to come up with him. But I think I am glad, now, that I didn't, though he deserved it. Anyway Paul Sam had the better right."
"The poor old Indian!" Faith said softly.
"Oh, I don't know. If he could talk about it he would say that he couldn't die better. And then he was a very old man."
"But life may be sweet to the old."
"Yes. But when a man is alone, when all of his blood and the friends of his youth and manhood are gone, there can't be much to live for. I would wish to die before that time comes to me."
"Don't talk of dying." She shivered a little. But the chord of melancholy in his being had been struck and vibrated.
"Why not? Talking will not bring death nearer, nor stave it off. 'Crioch onarach!' You have no Gaelic, but it means a good finish—an honorable end to life. And that is the main thing. What does it matter when you die, if you die well? I would not live my last years like a toothless, stiff, old dog, dragging his legs around the house with the sun. I would rather go out with the taste of life sweet in my mouth."
"We have many years before us, you and I," she said. "I think they will be happy years, boy."
"They will be largely what we make them. I remember my father's words when it was near the end with him; andhewas a hard man. The things worth least in life, he said, were hate and revenge; and the things worth most in life and more in death were love, and work well done, and a heart clean of bitterness. I did not think so then. But now I am beginning to think he was right."
"Yes, he was right," she said.
Fell a long silence. At last Faith took the banjo on her knee, and smiling at her husband began to pick the strings gently. She played at random, snatches of melody, broken, indistinct; old airs, odd, half-forgotten. Now and then she sang very softly.
Angus listened in utter content. He seemed to have reached a harbor, a sheltered haven. Toil, struggle, stress seemed far off, faint memories. The spell of the home was upon him in full. Little things—familiar furnishings, the backs of books, pictures—seemed like the smiling faces of old friends. It was, he recognized, the force of contrast with his recent experiences; but it was very pleasant. Softly the banjo talked; and with the haunting murmur of gut and parchment came Faith's voice, low but clear, singing to herself rather than to him.
"'Hame, laddie, hame, an' it's hame ye'll come to me,Hame to yer hame in yer ain countree;Whaur th' ash, an' th' oak an' th' bonnie hazel treeThey be all a-growin' green in yer ain countree.'"
"'Hame, laddie, hame, an' it's hame ye'll come to me,Hame to yer hame in yer ain countree;Whaur th' ash, an' th' oak an' th' bonnie hazel treeThey be all a-growin' green in yer ain countree.'"
For a moment the singing ceased, while the banjo whimpered uncertainly as if seeking a new tune. But it steadied to the same air.
"'If the bairn be a girl she shall wear a gowden ring;And if it be a boy he shall fight for his king—'"
"'If the bairn be a girl she shall wear a gowden ring;And if it be a boy he shall fight for his king—'"
Something in her voice, a soft, crooning note, caused Angus to stare at the singer. Up from the throat to brow a great wave of color swept. But her voice did not falter:
"'With his tarpaulin hat and his coat of navy blueHe shall pace the quarter-deck as his daddy used to do!'"
"'With his tarpaulin hat and his coat of navy blueHe shall pace the quarter-deck as his daddy used to do!'"