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Gawne had been a little slower. He had needed an instant of time to recover after the heave that had sent Hyat flying off of him. He squirmed around, and was on his hands and knees when Hyat regained his feet. Hyat kicked, malignantly, at Gawne’s face, and as Gawne rose he lunged at the boot, seized it, catching Hyat off balance and upsetting him.

Hyat fired as Gawne plunged forward. He saw Gawne stagger, but before he could press the trigger again, Gawne was upon him, hurling himself bodily through the air. He landed fairly on top of Hyat, with a force that brought an enraged grunt out of the man, and sent his pistol thudding into the dust, several feet distant.

For an instant both men were motionless, their arms twined about each other, resting from the terrific exertion. Hyat was gasping curses; Gawne was silent, in the grip of a cold rage that had turned his face to the color of gray ashes.

The last bullet fired by Hyat had struck Gawne in the left forearm. He had felt the shock at first—it did not bother him now. Mind, heart, muscles—every sinew and nerve—were singing a ferociously exultant tune, having for its burden the primal instinct to kill or maim his brother’s murderer.

This day had been years in coming. Yet Gawne had lived it thousands of times. He had planned, anticipated and longed for it. He had experienced all the malignant enjoyment that he possibly could get out of it. So vivid had been his imagination that numerous times brooding over his brother’s wrongs, he had felt his fingers at Watt Hyat’s throat. He had promised his brother—as he had sworn to himself—that he would make Hyat pay the price. He had cold-bloodedly planned Hyat’s end—many times. He would go about his work coolly.

He had neglected to take into account the passion that had been slowly accumulating in him. It was a resistless force that had increased in intensity the instant he felt the vicious play of Hyat’s muscles. Hyat’s revelation had robbed him of his last atom of self-control.

Hyat’s arms were around his neck. The man’s muscles were tough and leathery; Gawne’s face was buried in Hyat’s shoulder. Hyat was exerting terrific pressure on Gawne’s neck. He saw Hyat’s purpose: Hyat was trying to shut off his breath. He released his hold of Hyat’s arms and shoulders—ceasing to try to loosen the grip of the arms—and drove his right fist heavily into Hyat’s ribs near the stomach—working the fist rapidly, each driving punch bringing a grunt from Hyat.

Hyat seemed to grow less enthusiastic over his neck-hold. It relaxed. Hyat slowly turned Gawne’s body—the latter resisting the slow pull. Then suddenly Hyat lurched the other way, taking advantage of Gawne’s involuntary assistance. Hyat came near to pinning Gawne underneath him, but just in time Gawne divined the trick, and though his body rested, momentarily, under Hyat, in the next instant he was on top again.

It was not for long. The impetus given their bodies by the last turn carried them to the edge of a two or three yard-long declivity. They rolled down this, turning over and over, grimly locked in each other’s arms, caring nothing for the vicious bumping their heads received from impeding rocks; not heeding their destination, thinking of nothing but their hatred and their bitter desire to tear each other to pieces.

CHAPTER XXX

BACK TO THE RIVER

Nigger Paisley had lashed Jane’s feet to the stirrups; and he led Ginger so that the girl might not escape. After crossing the gray ridge above the river, and striking the dead, dry sand of the desert, Paisley rode slowly and warily. He knew he was taking a dangerous chance in attempting to make Williams’ Cache while the Vigilantes were abroad in the desert; but he saw no signs of them—and the moonlight permitted him to see far.

Jane was crying, riding limply, her head bowed.

How far she had gone with Nigger she did not know—it seemed to have been quite a distance. But she heard Nigger mutter sharply, and looking quickly at him she saw him gazing back toward the mountains—at a high, sharp ridge that connected the shoulders of two mountains. Fear, abject terror, was in Nigger’s face.

Jane followed Nigger’s gaze, and a different expression came into her face.

“Oh, It’s daddy! It’s daddy!” she shrieked.

“Madre de Dios!” faltered Nigger. He dropped Ginger’s rein and sent his horse, snorting with astonishment, into the moonlit haze toward the Cache, leaving Jane to stare after him with luminous, misty eyes, full of joy and anticipation.

She met Kathleen when she was not more than a mile or two out from the gray ridge. Her news, to the effect that she had seen Gawne riding the crest of the sharp ridge between the mountain shoulders, brought a deep sigh of relief from Kathleen. Much of Kathleen’s vindictiveness toward Nigger Paisley had been dissipated by the sight of Jane, unharmed and jubilant. And besides, she had not been able to see Nigger anywhere in the space that stretched on all sides of her.

But at Jane’s news her face flushed, and she rode onward toward the gray ridge with eyes downcast.

Jane, radiating delight over the coming of Gawne, was not to be disquieted by the imminence of tragedy. Her “daddy” would make everything come out all right. She had long been disturbed over Kathleen’s treatment of Gawne. Her resentment over that fact overshadowed her concern for the probable outcome of the night’s adventures. And so, as they rode, she watched Kathleen a little resentfully.

“Aren’t you glad daddy is coming?” she demanded, after a while.

“Why, yes, dear,” said Kathleen.

“Well, you don’t seem to be,” declared the girl. “I don’t believe you’ve treated daddy right. And he likes you—so very much. I heard him tell that Le Claire woman so—the day he woke up, after he was shot at Bozzam’s ranch. She came into daddy’s room—and I snubbed her, and walked right out. And I stood behind the door and listened to every word they said!”

“Oh, that wasn’t right, Jane!” remonstrated Kathleen. But she looked hopefully at the girl, her lips parted. “But of course you didn’t hear anything—very important?”

“I heard something that tickled me—if that’s important,” said Jane, with emphasis. “I heard daddy tell her she had no business coming to the Diamond Bar; that he’d never seen her more than three or four times; that he didn’t like her, and never had; and that she had got to go away, immediately. And he said he only liked one woman and that was you.”

The girl looked at the other in astonishment. For Kathleen had said: “Oh!” very feebly. And her face, as she rode onward, had grown very white.

They reached the gray ridge presently, and took the near slope silently. Descending the far side they scanned the vicinity of the cabin anxiously and were rewarded by seeing the gray horse, saddled and bridled, standing near the cabin, with drooping head. He whinnied a feeble welcome to them as they splashed through the water of the river toward him.

A dark splotch under Meteor’s muzzle caught their attention, and filled them with forebodings of evil; and riding closer hurriedly, they saw Gawne.

He was lying, lax and long, his knees drawn up a little; one elbow crooked, his head resting upon it. There was blood on the arm, and a wound in his throat—which looked as though it might have been made with a knife—gaped horribly.

Kathleen was down at his side in an instant, lifting his head; while Jane called loudly and hysterically to him. Whereat he pushed them away, and sat up, looking at them dazedly, swaying from side to side.

They drew back as he rose, and watched him, breathlessly. He muttered something about “Kathleen”, and “Jane’s gone with Paisley”—and, “Cass wouldn’t lie about it—now”, tottered to Meteor’s side, tried to climb into the saddle, reeled, and plunged headlong into the grass at Meteor’s feet. The big gray horse wheeled and stood over him, touching him with his muzzle.

Running—making a detour toward the river for water—Kathleen came upon Hame Bozzam. He was lying in a little depression at the foot of a declivity, huddled queerly, his head oddly twisted. Once Kathleen had seen a man with a broken neck; and this sight sent a cold shudder over her.

She was returning from the river with the water, when she heard a shout from the direction of the mountainside, and turned, to see Billings and several of the Diamond Bar men, racing headlong down the slope toward her.

CHAPTER XXXI

SOLVING A RIDDLE

By the time the wounds of the flesh had healed, the mental scars were in a fair way toward final effacement. There remained but one disturbing recollection in Kathleen’s jealous heart—that of the scene where Gawne stood in the doorway of the house in Bozzam City, with Blanche Le Claire. In the three months that had elapsed since the fight in Sunshine Gap, the recollection had tormented her. Today, she meant to speak of it.

She chose a time, after the evening meal, when the Colonel, in an invalid chair, was sitting in the dining-room of the Diamond Bar ranchhouse, reading to Jane and Aunt Emily and Uncle Lafe. The first tang of autumn was in the air, and the dried grass of the level near the ranchhouse rustled and rasped under the tread of Kathleen’s and Gawne’s feet as they walked toward the edge of the plateau, from where, more than six years before, Gawne had shot the Indians who had pillaged the Diamond Bar. The fall round-up was over. Billings, and a dozen men of the outfit were in the bunkhouse—Kathleen and Gawne could hear their shouts and laughter.

“They’re happy,” laughed Gawne, pulling Kathleen close to him.

“I would be—too,” she said, looking up at him, reproachfully; “if it were not for one thing.”

“I’ll give it to you—if it’s the moon!” he vowed, recklessly.

“You can’t give it to me,” she said, seizing his hands and holding tightly to them. “Jeff,” she whispered, reproachfully; “I saw Blanche Le Claire kiss you.”

“She did that to spite you,” he laughed. Then his eyes glinted with craft. “And I was riding near the Harkless ranchhouse one day—and I saw you in Watt Hyat’s arms.”

“I did that to spite you,” she quavered.

“Well,” he laughed. “Let’s be sensible. I promise, hereafter, to kiss nobody but you.”

“And I—you!” she said. She nestled closer into his arms. “I—I could have cried—that day in Bozzam City—when you were in Haskell’s office, and—and looked at me so fiercely—and suspiciously. I—I loved you then, more than ever.”

“I knew it—but wouldn’t admit it. I did quite a bit of cussing—under my breath—that day.”

“I—I believe I did—too!” she admitted. “Under my breath. Don’t you think, Jeff, that there are times when everybody cusses—or feels like it—which is the same thing?”

“If they’re human—of course,” he agreed.

Some philosophy along this line was aired by Billings, the foreman, on a day about six years later, when, seated on a bench in front of the bunkhouse he drew Riddle Gawne, Junior, between his knees and stroked his curly head.

“So you want to know why they named you ‘Riddle’, eh?” questioned Billings. “Well, I reckon that was just a notion. People have queer ones. I ain’t tryin’ to explain it.”

“What is a ‘riddle’, Billings?” asked Junior.

“Well—now—I reckon you got me—so far as explainin’ it goes. But I reckon it’s somethin’ that most folks don’t understand—like a conundrum or somethin’. Or mebbe it’s just a red-blooded man who’s dead set on havin’ things go right in the world. I knowed such a man in my time.”

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

The Wanderer

A Man’s Word is Law

The “Exception”

The Woman Curious

A Challenge

Accepting a Challenge

Concerning Women

“An’ She Blushin’ at Him!”

Bozzam’s Long Hand

The Face at the Window

The Flame of Desire

Nigger Paisley Plays

Jealousy

Fair Game

Straight Talk

Subtle Poison

Love’s Courier

The Odds of the Game

Bozzam’s Rule

Gawne Strikes

Disillusionment

A Matter of Nerve

Fangs Are Bared

Bozzam’s Prisoner

Another Captive

The Colonel Confesses

A Man Rides

And Wins

Vengeance

Back to the River

Solving a Riddle

* * *

Illustrations

“It’s back of the timber,” cursed Bozzam. “It’s the house!” [Frontispiece]

“I think I might—like you—a little—in time”

A second six-shooter leaped into Gawne’s hand—was extended toward Bozzam, stock first

A posse of grim-faced men rode out of town

* * *

About this Edition

The text comes from www.archive.org (A. C. McCLURG & CO., Published September, 1917): mainly from vengeancejeffer00compgoog.epub, but has been compared with vengeancejeffer00compgoog.pdf, which has contributed dubious readings, italics and missing pages. Clear typos and OCR misreadings have been corrected without further notice. However, many more are likely to remain, in view of the poor quality of the source OCR.

The pictures come from vengeancejeffer00compgoog.pdf on www.archive.org, made greyscale and resized to a maximum dimension (either side) of 500px; placed where they illustrate the text, which may be in two places (same picture file, of course).

The cover has been made from that of Argosy, September 1917, containing the first issue of the book, serialized as Riddle Gawne.

The Table of Contents and the List of Figures have been linked and moved to the end of the book—out of the way.

The formatting follows more or less the scans at www.archive.org, adapted to my taste.