saw to his, Nigger's, comfort before his own, what he could do. The great corded muscles slid easily to and fro beneath the skin, like well-oiled pistons, driving the body forward in a tireless, leaping stride. Slowly but surely the black was gaining ground.
The first few miles of the trail to the Circle B ran straight along the open floor of the valley, and the fugitive soon became aware that he was followed. One hurried backward glance told him who it was--there could be no mistaking the horse--and he cursed himself for an oversight.
'Why'n hell didn't I turn the hoss loose, or shoot it?'
He knew why, he had had only one thought--to get away. The accusing dark eyes in the flower-like face rose before him now, and he strove to find excuses. It was an accident--he could not have foreseen that she would stepin front of the puncher. But though such a plea might salve his own conscience he knew it would carry no weight in Windy. In a land where men were hanged for even attempting to steal a beast, this thing he had done would be dealt with in only one way; a rope and the nearest tree would be his portion if he were taken. For he had threatened to kill the girl. Damn it, Sim had been right; he had tripped over a skirt, and the crash of the fall had shattered his nerve. He, the last of the Burdettes, was fleeing for his life from one man.
One man! Why not stay and shoot it out? He stole a look rearward. The black horse was nearer now-- noticeably nearer--and further back along the trail was a bigger smother of dust in which dark spots moved swiftly. Bur-dette knew what this signified, and snarled an oath.
'Hell's fire! If I down Green they'll get me,' he muttered, and savagely spurred and quirted the racing beast between his knees to a greater burst of speed. For a moment or two the animal pluckily responded, but could not keep it up. Foot by foot the black was drawing closer and, notwithstanding the intense heat, a clammy wetness bedewed Burdette's brow. His horse was nearly exhausted, while that of his pursuer appeared to be running easily, as fresh as when it started. Was this to be the end? Tough as was his nature, he could not repress a shudder. He was still young, and life could be sweet. In another country, under a new name.... But first he must deal with the relentless devil behind.
Desperately his brain worked on the problem. A turn of the head told him that Green was now perilously near--sufficiently so to shoot him down if he wished, while the posse was still some distance away. But the expected shot did not come. Into the hunted man's eyes crept a gleam of hope. Furtively he got out his gun and reloaded the three empty chambers, shivering a little as he recalled the reason for his having to do so. Hell! It was her own fault, he told himself savagely. Holding the weapon in front of his body, he waited, conscious that he would soon be overtaken. What would Green do? Shoot it out, giving him an even break? yes, that was the sort of fool he was. His thin lips twisted in a scornful grimace.
The drumming beat of the oncoming black was louder now, and his own mount was visibly tiring. A bare twenty yards separated them. King's haggard, dust-grimed features hardened. They were nearing the point where the trail skirted the broken, wooded country around the base of Battle Butte, and if he could contrive to cripple the black or his rider he would have time to disappear before the posse came up. There were places . . .
Swiftly he slewed round in his saddle, fired twice, and stooped low over the neck of his pony to escape an answering bullet. None came; only the hammering hoofs grew more distinct, ringing like a death-knell in his ears. Again he flung two shots behind him, but travelling at such a pace it was impossible to aim with accuracy. He saw Green's hat fly from his head and cursed in bitter disappointment; an inch or two lower.... In a sudden spate of despairing ferocity King used his bloodied spurs cruelly. This savage act proved his undoing; his pony, already dying on its legs, lunged blindly, put a foot in a hollow and pitched forward. Burdette was a fine rider, but, caught unawares in the act of turning to fire one more chance shot, could not save himself, and was thrown headlong. In an instant the black thunderbolt was upon them; it missed the struggling pony but caught the man. Sudden, wrenching impotently at his reins, had a brief glimpse of a fear-riven face, heard a shriek of agony, and then-- silence.
The posse scampered up to find the C P foreman looking down upon the huddled, broken body of King Bur- dette. The pony had scrambled to its feet again and now stood head down, with heaving sides and every limb trembling.
'So yu got him?' one of the men said.
Sudden shook his head. 'My hoss trampled him--broke his back, I reckon. I couldn't stop him in time.'
'Well, it don't matter so long as he's cashed,' another said callously. 'We heard shootin'.' The puncher explained, and the man's eyes widened. 'Why the blazes didn't yu cut down on the coyote?' he wanted to know.
'I hadn't figured it that away,' was the grave reply.
A discussion arose as to the disposal of the body. 'I'm for takin' him in to town,' Weldon said. 'He was a big man hereabout--once.'
'This'll be bad news for Slippery,' someone remarked. 'How comes he ain't here?'
'Said suthin' about ridin' to his ranch this afternoon.'
For the marshal, listening in his office to the shooting, had purposely made a belated appearance at 'The Plaza,' arriving after the posse had departed.
'I reckon Sam'll want to see the last of his boss,' Weldon said grimly, little dreaming how near he was to the literal truth.
So it was decided. King Burdette made his last journey to Windy slung over the back of his pony, and Sudden, pacing behind the gruesome burden, remembered that he had brought young Purdie home in just the same fashion. And King had bushwhacked Purdie! His mind reverted to 'The Plaza,' and a gust of anger moved him.
'He died too easy,' came the bitter reflection.
THAT evening, behind the bolted door of his quarters, the marshal and his deputy had a lengthy conversation. The death of King Burdette was not all that Slype had hoped for.
'That cursed cow-punch is still blockin' the trail; we gotta git rid o' him,' he said. 'I guess it's up to yu, Riley.'
'Yu can guess again,' Riley replied unhesitatingly. 'I pass. That fella's too damn lucky, an' likewise, too spry with his guns.'
'Scared, huh?' his chief sneered.
'Shore I am,' the other admitted, adding bluntly, 'An' so are yu.'
Slype scowled, but did not deny the imputation. 'We'll have to find some way,' he said, and sat thinking. Presently he looked up. 'Reckon I got it. How about this?'
The deputy smiled crookedly when he had heard the scheme. 'She's a great notion,' he agreed. 'Won't nobody be able to heave rocks at yu neither. Yu certainly have got a headpiece, Slippery.'
'I figure it will work--for us,' the marshal said. 'If it does, the game's our'n. Cal's back an' we can make him come clean when we want.'
'Yu ain't forgettin' Purdie?'
Slype snapped his fingers. 'Without Green he'll be easy,' he replied. 'Git a-movin'.'
'The Plaza' was closed. Because of that, and the exciting events of the day, 'The Lucky Chance' and smaller drinking-places were crowded. From one to another of these the marshal and his deputy severally gravitated, mixing with group after group of the customers and joining in the conversation. Naturally there was only one topic--the day's doings--and the opinions of Slype and his assistant were singularly alike. Burdette was dead, and there was no harm in hanging a halo on him. The marshal did not state it in that way, but he voiced a doubt as to whether the Circle B boss was quite so blameworthy as appeared. He put forward a somewhat altered explanation of the kidnapping .Burdette believed he had a legitimate claim against the C P and was holding the girl to enforce it in order to avoid bloodshed--a laudable object.
'Bit high-handed o' King, I'm willin' to say,' Slype admitted, in the tone of one anxious to be fair to both sides, 'but that don't justify Purdie wipin' out the Circle B like he done.'
The slaying of Lu Lavigne was an obvious accident for which, according to the marshal, Green was really responsible. He had announced that he would shoot Burdette on sight, and naturally the menaced man, finding his enemy in 'The Plaza,' had got the drop on him. When King, half demented at having killed the woman he worshipped Slype inwardly smirked when he used the word--rushed away, the puncher followed, and having the better horse, caught him.
