would rather die than have her know," repeated Manners. "You understand the answer to that?"
"It's why I waited for you," said Charterhouse evenly.
"Then there is no need to delay longer. If you are killed, it shall be laid to the door of a Curly man. If I am killed, any story is good enough. Only I'll ask you as a gentleman to seal your knowledge of me forever."
"Agreed," was Charterhouse's laconic answer. "I am sorry I can't wish you luck."
"You're a cool one," said Manners. "How shall we settle the draw?"
"Suggest we back away from the fire to the rim of light."
Manners stared intently over the flames; he seemed to be trying to frame a last phrase but it never came out. So he took his cue from Charterhouse and slowly stepped to the rear. They halted on the edge of light, the flickering blaze between them.
"Can you see me?" asked Clint.
"Clear enough," muttered the ranchman, towering full length.
"And the signal—"
"I need no favor from you," retorted Manners. "I will wait your draw."
"Then," droned Charterhouse, "fire."
The night breeze scooped the flame tips into a red curling tongue that for the instant rose between them, shutting out sight. Through this crimson film the bullets passed and the roar ran away into the eerie corners of the fort, dying with a remote whisper. There was no more firing. The flames sank and Charterhouse, never stirring, saw a yellow hatless head cushioned against the earth as if asleep. In that solitary glance he knew all there was to be known. Nor did he tarry. He slipped back the gun and strode for the sheds, found his horse and swung away from Carson. With the outline of the poplars and building behind he spoke softly to the tired beast and set it to a stiff gallop.
"I have killed him," he said mechanically. "The man's dead. And Sherry loved him. Good or bad, she loved him. And never in a thousand years will she forget or forgive me."
He raced by the wagon with its four accompanying riders without a hail. All the way back he seemed detached from himself, numb of mind, scarcely conscious he owned a body. There was but one throbbing, clanging idea in his head: the job was done, Manners was dead, and the girl waited for his return. Charterhouse turned square with the beckoning ranch lights and galloped into the yard, finding Fitz already arrived. He got stiffly down and started for the porch.
"Fitz—will you throw my gear over my own horse?"
"Traveling's done forthe night," grunted the puncher. "Not for me, Fitz. Not tonight, or any other night, I reckon. Bring the black around. I'm going into the house, just for a minute."
He knocked at the door and heard Sherry's voice. Passing through, he saw her rising from a chair, some strange, bright glow of beauty spreading over those fine features. And the picture, the last he knew he should ever see, gripped him in the throat and tied his tongue. She was speaking swiftly, yet half of the words he never heard.
"—never again, Clint."
"No," he repeated, "never again, I reckon. Sherry, I have finished my chore. There is nothing more to do."
"I think," she said gravely, "there will always be something for you to do, Clint. And never anybody else quite able to do it but you."
The sound of her voice made pure melody. He gripped his hat between his big hands, pressing on. "You asked me to do what had to be done."
"You have, Clint."
"So," he muttered. "More. I must tell you—Buck Manners is dead at Fort Carson."
"Clint—"
"We matched guns, and he lost."
"But, Clint, he wasn't—"
"I had to come. No help for it, no choice. And after such a thing, there can't be any place on Box M for me. I am riding out, Sherry."
She was quite still, resting her body against the fireplace mantel, never letting her eyes turn from him, whitecheeked and again with that look of tragedy on her face. It shook him, it made the room impossible to be in.
"Think of me as charitably as you can. And good-bye."
He hurried through the door. Fitz was just bringing up his horse. Clint sprang to the saddle. "So long, Fitz. Turn down my plate at the table. Tell the boys I admire 'em like brothers."
And he was away, never hearing Fitzgibbon's muttered curiosity. The black surged fresh beneath him and he drove south at a headlong gait, not knowing why the haste was necessary nor understanding when he would stop. The prairie took him, the air turned crisper and the remote stars gleamed down. He forgot the passage of time, he was hardly conscious of his destination until trees were about him and then he discovered a meadow with a cabin in it. Bowing' place. He pulled himself out of the abyss of his thoughts to find himself mortally tired. He slid down, unsaddled and picketed the horse; going into the cabin, he stumbled to the bed and drew his saddle blanket over him. In that first moment of relaxation, he stared at the ceiling and summed up in slow, bitter words all that Casabella had done for him.
"I have had my fling. Now I can go back to work—and say good-bye to fine dreams." Then he was asleep.
When Clint woke, the fresh fine sun was pouring into Bowlus' window. He turned on the bunk and lifted himself suddenly. The door was open, as he had left it the night before. Sherry Nickum sat quietly on the steps, watching him with a small, wistful smile.
"I have been waiting for you to sleep it out," said she. "Now that you're up, I think I can find some coffee and bacon on the shelf. We will eat—for I haven't had time for breakfast either—and then we will ride home in the sun. You gave me no time to say anything last night. So I had one of the boys follow and find where you went. And here I am. Clint, there is a long time ahead of us for explaining and so we will do none of it now. But you can't run away from me. There isn't any border far enough removed I won't follow you across. You see, I happen to know how you feel and I have known it for some time. As for me, you have your answer, or I wouldn't be here."
A slow smile came over his face. "Last night, Sherry, I thought I was an old man waiting to die."
"I think I can change that, Clint. You have always been saddled with responsibilities. So I am saddling you with more. Come run Box M—and me."
WHISPERING RANGE
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