For a voice spoke from the camp. It came clear and strong into the darkness where he waited. “Who’s there?” someone asked.
Except for his sudden gusty breathing, Fargo made no sound in reply. He started to turn his horse.
“If you don’t answer, I’ll think it’s a coyote and shoot,” the voice came again. “I give you till I count three—”
Fargo had won his point by bluffing many times, he had known how to call the bluffs of other men; but he had no delusions about the hard, quiet voice that came out to him from the fireside. Very plainly the man meant what he said. But at least it wasn’t Dan the herder who had risen and spoken. The tones and words were not the melodious utterances of the Italian laborer who had been Hugh’s predecessor. The only other explanation that occurred to Fargo was that the murder had been discovered, and the man who had called him was an officer of the law who had been put on guard.
Fargo instantly decided it would not be wise to attempt to disobey these summons. Like most wrongdoers he had an abject horror and fear of the law, and the moment was of the greatest terror he had ever known. Yet he dared not turn and flee. In his panic he was unable to remember that not in one chance out of a hundred could a bullet find him in the darkness. For all he knew the man at the fire was already staring at him through his sights, and possibly the whole camp was surrounded by the officers. His mouth felt dry, his hands numb as he rode out into the circle of firelight.
And then his fear changed in a moment to devastating rage. The form was revealed quite clearly now: simply that of a lowly sheep herder in soiled clothes and with unshaven face. Had José lied about the murder? Yet this man was not Dan, the herder. There was nothing to believe but that Crowson had already discovered the crime and had hired a substitute.
There was nothing to fear here. His arrogance swept back to him and his eyes leaped savagely over the trim form that now had risen to greet him. It was a slender figure, the kind he could hammer to paste beneath his flailing fists. He swung down from the saddle, once more feeling himself completely master of the situation.
“What do you mean?” he demanded savagely, “hollerin’ out and threatenin’ me that way.”
Hugh looked at him, considering just what he had meant. And perhaps his lips drew up in a faint smile. If there was one thing his experience with the sheep had taught him, it was to smile: smile at misfortune, smile at the little, everyday comedy of life—and smile with real amusement at such storming, bullying men as this. But it was true that a moment before he had not been in the humor for mirth. He had known at once that the step in the darkness was not that of the coyote, or any of the hunters of the wild. It was a horse, and its rider could kill from a distance: perhaps it was the same foe that had crept into camp the previous night and had murdered Dan. His voice—he remembered with a strange, inward pleasure—had sounded level and clear; but nevertheless a wholly justified apprehension had been upon him. He had been entirely at a disadvantage. He made a fair target beside the leaping flame and he could not see his enemy at all. And he was still somewhat white about the lips as he stood up.
And if Fargo had only remained silent, Hugh would have been willing to have welcomed him at his fire. The loneliness of the wild places was already upon him, and any stranger that walked those darkened hills might have found shelter in his own tent. And this was the man who—a few days before—had been inwardly proud that he never made chance acquaintances, that he never accepted another for friendship or discourse except through the channels of his own social plane. It wasn’t being done by the men he knew: to arrive at any comradeship without first a correct introduction and then a certain amount of preliminary. How great had been the change! Yet in this case the man was obviously unfriendly; and Hugh slowly stiffened beneath his angry gaze.
“What do you mean by it?” the man demanded. “Hollerin’ out?”
“Why, I meant—” Hugh replied, in a perfectly casual tone, “exactly what I said. That I’d shoot if you didn’t reveal yourself. I’m against coyotes, wild or human. And what are you doing here?”
Fargo noted with some amazement that the tables had been—as if by a magician’s magic—instantly turned about; and that he himself was no longer the inquisitor. He bristled, furious that this lowly herder should not instantly yield to his own superiority. Yet he suddenly remembered certain little facts that tended to restrain him. The man was in his rights: and perhaps it was best to have some explanation for his presence on the night following a murder.
“Don’t go making any inferences you’ll regret later,” he warned. “I’m bear huntin’—got a pack of dogs out there somewhere, and they got away from me.” He stepped one pace nearer. “And I want you to know I’m not expectin’ any back talk from such as you. All I’d have to do was to say the word, and old Crowson would fire you in a minute.”
“You’re one of his friends, are you?” Hugh asked easily.
“He’ll do what I say—don’t you mind about that.”
“Then perhaps”—Hugh struggled an instant and caught at a name that Alice had spoken—“you’re José Mertos.”
Fargo started—hardly perceptibly—and caught himself at once. “Do I look like a Mexican?” he demanded.
“Just a bit stout for a Mexican,” Hugh went on appraisingly. He didn’t know why, but a slow anger had begun to take hold of him.
