sheriff himself was worried. He could not send for Pete, because there was no charge against Joe. There was only a huge weight of suspicion. Legally speaking the deputy had not had the slightest shadow of a right to command Joe Daly to leave those parts and never to return. But in the eye of the public at large, Pete had every right. And it had been noticed that after the disappearance of Joe Daly the rustling of cattle, the stealing of horses, the occasional holdups through the adjacent hills fell away to nothingness, comparatively speaking.
What could be a more vivid proof that Pete Burnside, as usual, had been right and had solved the problem for the community. They would have voted him a whole flock of gold watches and chains and huge diamond pins. But gifts were not wanted. Pete lived for the pleasure of battle, and he did not wish to be paid for doing his duty. His salary, he often said, represented living expenses, not a reward for service!
And when the distinguished deputy heard that Joe Daly was returned to the town, he shrugged his shoulders, removed his cigarette from his lips, and blew a cloud of smoke at the moon.
"There's sure queer things happening around, these parts," said Pete Burnside and straightway mounted his horse and started for the town.
It was just after twilight when he started. It was eight o'clock when his horse jogged down the main street knocking up a cloud of alkali dust which stung the nostrils of the riders. He knew where to go, but he did not know what he should expect to meet. Strange doubts had been rising in his mind, and he had pushed on his horse until the poor creature was almost exhausted in his eagerness to get at once to his enemy and settle all doubts with the guns. But what had nerved Joe Daly to return?
A chill of terror struck through the deputy sheriff. It was not fear of Joe, to be sure, but it was fear of some power which might be behind Daly. It was fear of fear, one might have said. Something had happened not to the body of Daly, of course, but to his spirit. Something which must have been like a miracle, for he could vividly remember how Daly had cringed before him on the occasion of their last meeting.
Where he would find Joe now was not a matter of question. Daly would be on the hotel veranda. At the coming of the deputy he would rise. They would exchange words, so that both could be said to have received their warning, and then they would go for their weapons of one accord. He who died would be buried. He who survived might be arrested, but in that case he would plead that he saw the hand of his opponent go toward the holster at his side, and that he had shot in self-defense. And not the most prejudiced jury that could be brought together in the mountains would convict where there was a reasonable doubt about that plea of self-defense. For, as the good citizens told themselves and one another, how could they tell when they themselves might be in such an encounter? When they were about to fight for their lives, would they wish to know that the law would hang them, should they happen to escape from the bullets of the enemy?
Straight up to the hotel, then, rode Pete Burnside. How would Joe Daly appear, and what would be his manner? The deputy saw even from a great distance; even from a great distance he heard a ringing and loud laughter. And when he came a little closer he saw Joe Daly tilted far back in a chair on the veranda, with his thumbs hooked into the armholes of his vest, and his hat thrust to the back of his head. And his ugly, square-face was wreathed with grins of confidence and self-satisfaction.
The deputy hesitated a single instant. Then he gritted his teeth and made the nervousness leave him. He swung to the ground and advanced. There was a gripping chill in his stomach, and his head was light and empty; his lips trembled, his knees were unstrung; his face was white. Now a great coldness of spirit was translated into a physical chill.
It was fear. But, for that matter, he never entered a battle without being in the hold-of this same terror. He fought it away and forced himself up the steps to the upper level of the veranda. This, after all, was the great joy of the battle—to feel himself on the verge of collapse through terror, to fight away that weakness, to summon all his faculties for the great effort, to whip out the gun at the opportune moment, to dash the enemy to the ground with his flying bullet—this was a joy compared with which all else was as nothing. The gaming table had no fascination for one who had taken the chances of life and death in his hand.
Suddenly he stood in the full blaze of the big lamp which lighted the veranda. Joe Daly, he noted, had chosen a distant and obscure corner, where the light fell only with half the radiance that shone upon Pete at the head of the steps. But let Joe have that handicap in his favor. He, Pete Burnside, had ever been willing to take the worse portion in the battle. It made the glory of victory all the sweeter.
As he appeared, Daly sprang to his feet.
"Is that mean four-flusher and lying hound that's been spreading talk about me around these parts?" asked Daly. "Is that you, Pete Burnside?"
Pete pushed back his hat, then remembered that he must not expose the utter pallor of his face. Now he jerked his sombrero lower, so that its shadow might protect him from the prying eyes of Daly.
"I allow it's me; all right," he said. "I been hearing that you want to see me, Joe."
"I ain't said a word like that. I just sent out to say that I'm back in town. Does that mean anything to you?"
He was working himself into his battle fury, but Pete Burnside hesitated. He had not yet evoked that coldly hostile frame of mind which he liked best before he struck. The fear had been pushed to the back of his mind, but it was still present.
"I ain't going to say 'Welcome home,' if that's what you expect, Joe."
"You know very well what I'm driving at. When I got out of town you said that you'd come with your gun ready and shoot me full of holes, if I came back. Well, here I am, Pete. And how come that your gat is in the leather still, eh?"
There was no chance to wait after such a direct insult. Pete Burnside reached for his gun. Daly had not waited; no sooner had he hurled his defiance than he jerked out his Colt. And yet the deputy, watching the movements of his antagonist, knew that he had the result of the battle in the hollow of his hand. He could still delay for a thousandth part of a second the convulsive move which would stretch Joe Daly bleeding and dying on the boards of the veranda.
But now was the time. The gun of Daly was clear of the holster. All men must admit, afterward, that he had allowed Daly to have the advantage in the start of the draw. Then he made his own motion. It was an explosion of mind and muscle. The gun was literally thought out of its holster, the heavy butt of the Colt struck the palm of his hand, and he fired. It was a clean death to his credit. For that bullet struck straight over the heart of Daly. There could be no doubt about it. Pete saw Daly stagger under the blow, he could have sworn, and yet Joe did not go down! No, amazing though it seemed, Joe Daly stood! And, before Burnside could fire again, Joe's gun exploded. There was an ocean of darkness poured over the spirit of Pete Burnside, and he pitched forward upon his face.
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