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The man who had vowed to kill a horse that he loved, had swept like an eagle in full flight over the dark level that stretched between the Diamond Bar and the Harkless ranchhouse. The great, spirited, rangy, iron-hearted beast had made the run at his best. And while his master ran hither and yon examining hoof prints in the sand near the Harkless ranchhouse—and made sharp, impatient exclamations of rage and bafflement—and queer, sibilant throat-noises, like a blood-hound on a trail—Meteor stood, head hanging, breathing great, long breaths of air into his sorely-tried lungs.

For the first time in his life he found it necessary to brace his legs as he stood. The sinewy, resilient muscles were quivering; his heart was throbbing with mighty beats that threatened to break it. Yet when he saw his master approaching him, running, he knew that the race was not yet over. And with persistent loyalty he raised his head, gave a great heave of resignation, answered his master’s voice with a whinny of delight and stiffened his lagging muscles.

Down the river trail he flashed, a dark, sinuous streak against the green of the moonlit trees. He swerved where two trails diverged, plunging recklessly into the mouth of a gorge that looked like a gateway to a black abyss. He felt the reins loosen when he struck the darkness, and knew that his master was trusting to his instinct and wisdom. And though he slackened his speed very little, he did his best to deserve the silent praise that had been bestowed upon him—and did not stumble once.

He shot out of the gorge into a wide canyon with a clattering rush that made the rock walls of the place roar and reverberate with a rush of weird sound. Not for an instant did he falter. And when, beginning an upward climb to the shoulder of a mountain, Gawne tried to pull him down, to save his strength, he snorted with impatience, whistled protestingly, and went up with great, powerful springing leaps.

On the shoulder of the mountain—up on a level from which he could look down upon the silent lowlands, vast and ghostly in the light-flood, he halted. He rocked to and fro, his powerful body trembling in every fiber; and Gawne got down, went to his head, and stroked him. For five minutes they stood thus. Then, putting the reins in the crook of his elbow, Gawne led the gray horse forward—over a precarious ledge whose smooth rock wall dropped sheer, a thousand feet.

Beyond the ledge was a wide, flat ridge. It connected the shoulders of two mountains. It was barren, sharp in outline, looming clear and high. The moon, swimming level with its crest, flooded it, throwing into bold silhouette the figures of a horse and rider.

From the desert the ridge could be seen, plainly. Paisley, riding there, watching Jane with glowing eyes, chanced to look back. His gaze rested momentarily, on the ridge. He saw the leaping silhouette of horse and rider sweeping across the ridge. His face whitened; he crossed himself, dropped Ginger’s reins, and raced into the desert at a greater speed than he had traveled on another day that was still fresh in his memory—leaving Jane, on Ginger, to her own devices.

At the door of the cabin Hame Bozzam halted. Kathleen felt his arms loosen their grip. She was free, but she did not make the dash for freedom that this opportunity seemed to offer. For she was suddenly fascinated over Bozzam’s actions. He was slowly turning around. She stepped back a little from the threshold and watched him. When he had turned until his back was toward her, she saw him peering intently toward some brush that screened a depression about twenty feet from the house. Following his gaze she saw a man standing at a little distance from the brush. She recognized the man instantly. It was Jess Cass!

There was a heavy six-shooter in his right hand—leveled. It seemed to her that he had been about to shoot when Bozzam turned and saw him, but was prevented through fear of hitting her.

At last Bozzam was facing Cass fairly. Bozzam’s arms were extended, his hands about a foot out from his hips—they had stiffened, instead of falling to his sides when he had released Kathleen. And he did not dare to move them toward his sides.

Cass meant to shoot—Kathleen saw that. It seemed, too, that she knew what was in Cass’ mind. She had been present the day Bozzam had beaten Cass; she knew that Cass had come to square the account between him and Bozzam. And now, remembering Bozzam’s cowardice in the presence of Jeff Gawne; Kathleen watched Bozzam now, narrowly, wonderingly, for there was no fear in his attitude. She saw his profile—his square chin; the stiff curves of his sneering lips; the deep wrinkles that had been summoned by the feline smile on his face. He knew what Jess Cass had come for, and was not afraid.

He took a step toward Cass; but Kathleen noted that he was careful to keep in line with the doorway.

She looked from Bozzam to Cass. She was sure she saw the muzzle of Cass’ weapon move ever so slightly toward the horses, and she caught her breath with a quick gasp. Then, stepping down from the threshold, she began to move stealthily toward the corner of the cabin nearest the horses. It seemed incredible, but she could have sworn she saw Cass’ eyes gleam with approval at the move.

Bozzam had come to a halt. As Kathleen moved away she heard him speaking lowly, to Cass:

“How did you get here?”

“Walked,” said Cass. “I was holed up at the Colonel’s ranch when you an’ Nigger brought the girls there. What I went there for, is my business. But I ain’t neglectin’ to say that it wasn’t for doin’ you any good. I’d cached my cayuse in the brush. I forked him as far as the big gorge, an’ I left him there—knowin’ you was headin’ for here. I been layin’ in the brush a day an’ a night, waitin’ for my chance. It’s come now. You move one of your hooks toward your guns an’ I blow you apart!”

Kathleen waited to hear no more. She ran to the saddles, picked up one at random, and dragged it to the horses. Breathlessly, working with hands that trembled so that she despaired of accomplishing her purpose, she finally got the saddle on, cinched it, and threw herself into it.

It was not until she wheeled the animal and was urging it frenziedly past Bozzam and Cass, that she noticed a rifle in a holster on the right saddle skirt. And then she knew she had taken Bozzam’s saddle!

She thought no more of Bozzam and Cass, now; all her interest was centered in concern for Jane.

She leaned over and touched the rifle as she rode toward the river—the feel of it made her pulses leap.

The horse was climbing the near slope of the gray ridge when she heard two shots from the direction of the cabin. Bending over, riding hard, she prayed that one of the shots might do for Hame Bozzam. But she was not afraid, now, of Bozzam or Paisley. For she had used a rifle before now; and she knew that if either of them came within range she would kill them, and feel no remorse for the deed. As a matter of fact, she had determined to overtake Paisley—whether he had harmed Jane or not. He had killed her father, and she thirsted for revenge.

Bozzam had tricked Cass into throwing a shot at him as he dove, headlong, to the ground. Cass’ weapon barked, but the bullet merely kicked up some dust at a point quite a little distance behind where Bozzam had been standing. As Bozzam threw himself forward he got his gun out, and he fired as he rolled in the dust. He saw Cass stagger, and he tried to fire again as Cass tumbled forward, but the impetus of his forward movement spoiled his chance. When he scrambled to his hands and knees, facing Cass, he saw that Cass had been hard hit. His gun was lying in the dust within a few inches of his slowly-spreading, outstretched fingers, and he was coughing weakly and spasmodically, his face turned to one side, his eyes closed.

Bozzam got up and circled him warily, grinning with cold malevolence. Then he stepped quickly forward and turned Cass over. A red stain on Cass’ shirt, low down on the chest, brought a grunt of satisfaction from Bozzam. He sheathed his pistol, kicked Cass’ into the brush, and ran to where a saddle lay. He grumbled when he discovered that it was not his own; but threw it on his horse and tightened the cinch.

The reins in hand, ready to mount, he heard heavily-drumming hoof beats from the direction of the mountainside. He saw a gray horse lurching down the sharp slope; a tall, crouching figure in the saddle; and he drew his breath sharply, standing, with blanched face and shaking knees, watching the dread apparition!

Forgetting, Bozzam ran a hand over the saddle skirts in search of the rifle. He cursed horribly when he remembered; and slipped, muttering, behind his horse, where he stood, getting his breath in shuddering sobs, watching the progress of the gray horse. After six years—just as he was ready to leave the country—death had come to meet him.

He knew it! Twice had it been postponed; twice he owed his life to those slight interpositions with which Fate sometimes mocks its pawns. Nothing like that could happen now—he and Gawne were alone, except for the wounded Cass.

Everything, it seemed to him, had conspired to get him into his present position. Nothing but a clear eye and a steady brain and hand would get him out of it, alive. He fought for them as he stood behind his horse, watching his enemy’s progress through the grass and dust of the level—and became that most dangerous of all the fighting animals of the Earth—the Man with his back to the wall.

Gawne had not seem him, yet, he believed; for Gawne’s face was turned toward the cabin as he rode. Bozzam noted, tensely observing every detail with the wild, wide, inclusive stare of the hunted; the quivering, strained intensity of the desperate, searching for the Long Chance—that the gray horse was almost spent—that his lurches were dangerously near falls, and that he wheezed his breath with great despairing gasps.

Bozzam drew his gun. Somehow, the actions of the jaded gray horse seemed to Bozzam to be an omen of good. He slipped around his own horse and stole toward Gawne, keeping some sagebrush between him and the other.

Half-way over the level, Gawne seemed to realize that the gray’s hour had come, and he rose in the saddle to swing clear. The gray swayed at the movement, and fell heavily, pinning Gawne to the ground, beneath him.

CHAPTER XXIX

VENGEANCE

The pressing of the cold muzzle of Bozzam’s six-shooter against Gawne’s head caused him to cease his efforts to free his captive leg. He was resting his weight on his elbows at the instant Bozzam’s pistol touched him, trying to work the foot out of the stirrup, and he knew that a movement of his hands toward his weapons would bring a quick finger pressure on the trigger of his enemy’s weapon. He was powerless to prevent Bozzam’s lightning movement toward the pistols at his hips; but after Bozzam drew them and threw them savagely into some bushes, he grinned tauntingly at the big man who stooped over him. Bozzam’s eyes were blazing with triumph. He was panting heavily, as though just recovering from some terrific physical exertion.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, I’ve got you, you damned coyote!” he kept repeating. His voice was dry and light, like that of a man, dazed, who has just undergone horrible mental agony, and who is just beginning to fix material things clearly in his mind. The gloating look in his eyes gave Gawne some intimation of the depth of the man’s passions—the hatred of six years was concentrated there, was about ready to express itself in violent action. Gawne slowly stiffened and set his face.

“Got you!” repeated Bozzam. “It was too much to hope for! It’s too good to be true! I can hardly believe it!” He reached out his free hand and touched Gawne’s face, and showed his teeth in a smile of hideous joy. He was getting his breath in great, laborious gasps; his cheeks were bloated with a poisonous flush; the cords of his neck were swollen and quivering; his lips were slavering. Gawne wondered why he did not press the trigger of his weapon and have it over.

But Bozzam, now that he was sure of his vengeance, did not want to hurry it. Six years, it had been, since Gawne had come; for six years he had feared Gawne; for six years he had avoided the man, dreading recognition; dreading Gawne’s vengeance; his blood turning to water whenever he saw Gawne.

He wanted Gawne to know; he could not let Gawne die, ignorant of the identity of his enemy. That would rob him of half his satisfaction. He wanted to see Gawne’s face blanch, as his own had blanched, many times; he wanted to see Gawne cringe and shudder; he yearned to hear him beg and plead.

In his eagerness he knelt at Gawne’s side, gripping Gawne’s right arm, at the biceps, and resting his weight on it, driving the arm into the dust. The feel of his enemy’s muscles, writhing in his clutch, made him cackle insanely. He stuck the gun muzzle against Gawne’s throat and held it there with vicious pressure.

“Listen,” he said, hoarsely. “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to make it certain! But before I do, I want you to know me. I’ve hated you ever since I saw you, the first time, in the Carter ranch-house. You’ve hated me, too. But you didn’t know why. Do you know why, now? It’s because I’m Watt Hyat! That’s why you hate me—damn you!” He leaned closer and saw the blood leave Gawne’s face; saw Gawne’s eyes widen and flame with impotent fury; he felt the man’s muscles contract into rigid bunches and waves.

“It hurts, eh?” he gloated. “You trailed me for seven years—before you landed in this country! And this is what you get!” He paused to laugh again—to laugh and wonder at the cold calculating glare in Gawne’s eyes. That look should have warned him, but he was too obsessed with his hatred to heed.

Gawne had felt Meteor move. The terrific run had not killed the gray; and while Bozzam had been talking Gawne had sensed a movement of the superb muscles of the beast—a slow, contracting ripple; a gradual gathering of sinews—a testing, it seemed to him, of their strength. Meteor’s gallant strength was returning; the indomitable spirit of the animal had not been touched. He was going to rise! Gawne felt the first preparatory movement, and it enabled him to draw his foot from the stirrup.

“There’s more,” Bozzam went on, unheeding. “You’ll enjoy this! Jane Carter ain’t Jane Carter at all! She’s Jane Gawne!—your brother’s kid! Your brother’s kid!—do you hear? She was born six months after I killed Wesley Gawne! Doris Hammond died right here in Carter’s cabin, and I planted the kid on the Carters! Understand? She’s your niece; your niece—and I’ve sent her to Williams’ Cache—with Nigger Paisley! With Nigger Paisley! And you know Nigger—don’t you! You know—”

Hyat’s voice broke in a startled gasp. The gray horse scrambled and grunted at Hyat’s back as Gawne snapped his head sideways. Hyat dragged savagely on the trigger of his weapon; but Gawne’s contracting muscles threw him off his balance, and the gun muzzle was buried deep in the sand. The dry dust splayed like waters of a fountain as the pistol exploded, spraying the men as they struggled. There was a gigantic heave of Gawne’s body; the blot in the sand split up—Hyat tumbling head foremost out of it, the gun in his hand exploding again, harmlessly. Hyat recovered his balance with the agility of a cat—sprawling on hands and knees for an instant, and then straightening, cursing.