west. Never a word was spoken. The sun went before them, and the land blazed like the very pit of hell; the sky was a brilliant brass shield, then the sun dipped and dusk came with a grateful touch of wind. San Saba wound in and out of the draws. He accelerated the pace, he slowed it. They passed a ridge and halted. Lispenard roused himself at the ex-foreman's whispers to see a point of fire glowing through the darkness below.
"What is it?" he grumbled.
"I spotted 'em this mornin'." replied San Saba. "Prospectors from Deadwood. Restin' up."
"What about it?"
"Loosen yo' gun, man. No prospector comes out o' Deadwood lessen he totes a full poke. We ride down casual-like. When I say 'now'—yo' understand?"
Lispenard pulled himself together, just short of an oath. If ever he were to draw away from this gaunt, sinister partner, now must be the time. San Saba's horse crowded nearer; the ex- foreman's shadow hovered over him. Words struck him sharply, imperiously. "By God, suh, if yo' yalla, go back to Nelson; I trail with no gumpless chicken hearts. What yo' deceivin' me fo'? It ain't strange Gillette whipped yo' offen the ranch!"
Lispenard's throat burned like fire. He fumbled into his roll and drew out the whisky bottle; he knocked out the cork and drank it like so much water. "All right—I'll match that, you rascal. I'm remembering those sweet words, my friend. All right."
"When I say 'now,'" was San Saba's cold murmur. His horse moved downward. The two of them quartered the slope, drawing near to the fire. A picketed horse whinnied and a rugged figure of a man passed the light swiftly. A challenge struck them.
"Who's thar?"
"Friends—friends," called San Saba. "We ain't struck a water hole all day. Yo' kin'ly oblige?"
A second voice, unfriendly, joined in. "Man's supposed to kerry his own fluid in this country, stranger. Ain't you knowin' the ways? Too many dam' pilgrims clutterin' the Territory. Git down—come to the fire."
San Saba dismounted. Lispenard dropped clumsily to the ground and walked abreast the ex-foreman. The prospectors stood on the edge of light, a pair of burly creatures full bearded and gimlet eyed. San Saba spread his hands over the flame points. "Gits cold almighty sudden after sundown. No, suh, we ain't pilgrims. Texans, suh. My pardner is a-lookin' for a man this way. Got a impo'tant letter. Blondy, yo' got that letter in yo' breeches pocket, ain't yo'?"
The Blond Giant stood uncertainly in his tracks. What was San Saba driving at now? He licked his lips, feeling the weight of the man's little red eyes. And of a sudden he understood San Saba was giving him a chance to drop his arms nearer his holster. He obeyed. San Saba muttered "now" in a husky, remote voice. Half blind, Lispenard clawed for his weapon. The two figures of the miners seemed to blur and weave aside. A carbine flew up in his face. There was a shot, and he felt his own kicking back in his hands, time and again. And still this scene was but a blur, and he was sick at his stomach, and the blood pounded in his head. Somebody still fired, but the miners had disappeared from his vision.
San Saba's brittle voice warned him. "That's enough. Yo' killed him. Pull up—don't he'p none to scatter bullets in a co'pse."
Lispenard dropped his gun, seeing one of the miners aprawled at his feet, face downward and dead. He stumbled around the fire trying to find something to lean against. But San Saba was bent over the men, and presently the ex-foreman stood up, grimly triumphant. "No prospector comes from Deadwood lessen he totes a full poke. Here's yo' poke. Now, come away. We ride all night."
Lispenard's mind grew clearer. The poke weighed considerable. He slipped it into his coat pocket and groped back toward his horse. If that was all to killing a man—San Saba already had passed beyond, and Lispenard spurred in pursuit.
"I'd protected yo' case it was nes'arry," murmured San Saba. "But yo' did well. First fight is allus blind. Nex' time keep yo' wits. Aim straight an' don' use more'n one bullet. We ride fo' Deadwood."
"What was the idea of this?" muttered Lispenard. "Cold murder, man! We could have done it without that."
"Sho'. I told you I'd teach you tricks. First kill is allus hardest. I picked miners for yo' to try on. Miner's shoot pritty poor."
Lispenard was stone sober and chilled to the bone. "Some day, my friend, I'll have to kill you. By God, I will have to do it or be killed myself."
San Saba's dry chuckle reached him. "Mebbe—when yo' get too big fo' me. Meanwhile, we got a stake, and Deadwood is full o' chances. Fifty-fifty."
"See you don't forget that," growled Lispenard.
"We'll come back to Mister Gillette later," murmured San Saba. "Prick that pony."
XI. THE RAID
There was a windstorm brewing in the south; Tom Gillette, poised on a ridge, saw the gray screen of sand in the distance. Presently it would be on him, beating against him like so many needles, choking the wind down his throat. Reluctantly he turned ranchward; for a week the far edge of his daily ride had brought him to this high point separating his range from that of the Wyatts. And here he tarried, not sure why he waited, yet always looking eastward for a telltale fluffing of dust against the sky and the view of Lorena's lithe body swaying in the saddle like that of an Indian. She had formerly kept a casual rendezvous with him, and the sight of her clear, grave face had always made the day a little more pleasant, even though she had the trick of puzzling him with odd emotions now and then mirrored in her black eyes. But for a week, since the fight with Lispenard she had forsaken this ridge; and no news came from the Wyatt ranch.
He travelled back, uneasy and dissatisfied. In the distance he caught a glint of the river, a thin trickle above the porous sands; alkali dust stung his throat, the blazing, blistering sun beat against the dun earth until the eye wearied of the sight The prairie quivered under shimmering heat waves; southwest the dark folds of the Black Hills reared against the brazen sky. Over there in the heart of the hills men dug yellow metal and a town was in the full tide of a boom.
News came slowly to his section of the territory; he heard that all the Texans along the river were gone, save Wyatt. According to the P.R.N. resident agent Wyatt likewise had sold, but Tom Gillette only half believed the tale. Wyatt had been too anxious to acquire that strip, and Lorena, who swayed her father to some extent, bucked the idea of moving. Why was it she kept away from him? Whatever she thought of Christine Ballard and his relations with the girl was wrong. He wanted to tell her she was wrong.
"What difference does it make?" he muttered. "But couldn't she see for herself there's nothing between Kit and me?"
It left him irritable. He was a man; he didn't understand women, and he knew he never would be able to understand them. They muddied up the current of life, they cut across the established order of things, they acted out of impulse—or if it were not impulse then it was some obscure motive he couldn't grasp. Kit always had been elusive and enigmatic, but he thought Lorena moved more straightforwardly, that she had no contradictions in her nature. He had thought so until the fight. And then, when her cool hand slid over his face and those queer muffled words reached him he knew all women were essentially alike.
The van of the windstorm swept across the prairie, sage stalks rolling along before. "Mosey," said Gillette, and raised his bandana. At the moment of action he saw scuffed hoof prints on the ground, and he checked his horse,
