"But you are hurt. You are not fit—"
"I am not hurt at all—to speak of. I have a long account to settle with Blake French and Garland—yes, and with the whole bunch of those Frenches and Braden as well—and now I am going to clean it up."
"But if I forgive—"
"Forgive!" he interrupted bitterly. "It doesn't matter to me what you forgive. You are a woman. But I am a man and you are my wife, and I can see the marks of Blake French's fingers on your flesh. As surely as God lives I will kill him, or he will kill me. About Garland I don't know—yet."
His will was set, hardened; his mood black, deadly. Immediately he set about his simple preparations. He knew that Blake and Garland would not wait his coming. In all probability they would break for the hills, where he must be prepared to follow them. He had found Chief, who had come home of his own accord, waiting by the gate. A pack pony would hamper his movements. He shoved his food in a sack, rolled a single blanket in a tarp, got out a heavy sweater and changed his boots for shoe-packs. Then he held out his arms to Faith. She clung to him.
"Don't go!" she pleaded. "If anything should happen—now—"
"I must go," he said. "If I didn't I should be less than a man. Nothing will happen—to me. To-morrow—or it's to-day now, I guess—go to the ranch and stay there till I get back."
He kissed her gently and put her from him. She followed him to the door and saw him mount. He waved his hand and vanished in the blackness of the night.
Faith returned to the living-room and sank into a chair. She was shaken, bone-tired, sick at heart. A lifetime seemed to have passed since she and Angus had sat there the night before, indulging in make-believe playing at tragedy. Now tragedy had invaded their lives. It was like an evil dream.
How long she sat there she never knew. Nor did she know how she became aware that she was not alone. She turned her head to see a figure standing behind her. Her shaken nerves forced a cry from her lips.