Part 44 (1/2)

”_You--you_!” he burst out helplessly in the grip of deadly hate and agony. He hated her then--hated her beauty--and the betrayal of her fear for him. What was life to him now? Oh, the insupportable bitterness!

”Go back to my mother,” he ordered harshly, and averted his face.

Then he seemed to forget her. He saw Blinky close to him, deeply shaken, yet composed and grim. He heard the movement of many feet, the stamping of hoofs.

”All aboard for Salt Lake,” called the stage driver. Smith the agent pa.s.sed Pan with more mailbags. The strain all about him had broken.

”Pard,” Pan said, laying a hand on Blinky. ”Go with her--take her to my mother.... And leave me alone.”

”No, by Gawd!” replied Blinky sullenly. ”You forget this heah is my deal too. There's Louise.... An' Lucy took her bag an' hurried away.

There, she's runnin' past the Yellow Mine.”

”Blink, did she hear what I said to Hardman about Louise?” asked Pan bitterly.

”Reckon not. She'd keeled over aboot then. I sh.o.r.e kept my eye on her. An' I tell you, pard--”

”Never mind,” interrupted Pan. ”What's the difference? h.e.l.lsfire!

Whisky! Let's get a drink. It's whisky I want.”

”Sh.o.r.e. I told you thet a while back. Come on, pard. It's red-eye fer us!”

They crossed to the corner saloon, a low dive kept by a Chinaman and frequented by Mexicans and Indians. These poured out pellmell as the cowboys jangled up to the bar. Jard Hardman's outfit coming to town had prepared the way for this.

”Howdy,” was Blinky's greeting to the black bottle that was thumped upon the counter. ”You look mighty natural ... heah's to Panhandle Smith!”

Pan drank. The fiery liquor burned down to meet and coalesce round that gnawing knot in his internals. It augmented while it soothed. It burned as it cooled. It inflamed, but did not intoxicate.

”Pard, heah's to the old Cimarron,” said Blinky, as they drank again.

Pan had no response. Memory of the Cimarron only guided his flying mind over the ranges to Las Animas. They drank and drank. Blinky's tongue grew looser.

”Hold your tongue, d.a.m.n you,” said Pan.

”Imposs.h.i.+blity. Lesh have another.”

”One more then. You're drunk, cowboy.”

”Me drunk? No s.h.i.+r, pard. I'm just tongue-tied.... Now, by Gawd, heah's to Louise Melliss!”

”I drink to that,” flashed Pan, as he drained his gla.s.s.

The afternoon had waned. Matthews lay dead in the street. He lay in front of the Yellow Mine, from which he had been driven by men who would no longer stand the strain.

The street was deserted except for that black figure, lying face down with a gun in his right hand. His black sombrero lay flat. The wind had blown a high hat down the street until it had stopped near the sombrero. Those who peeped out from behind doors or from windows espied these sinister objects.

Pan had patrolled the street. He had made a house-to-house canva.s.s, searching for Jim Blake. He had entered every place except the Yellow Mine. That he reserved for the last. But he did not find Blake. He encountered, however, a slight pale man in clerical garb.

”Are you the parson Matthews brought to Marco?” demanded Pan harshly.