Rock staved off Nona Parke’s agitated questions when he asked for food. He robbed his own bed reluctantly, but a promise was a promise, apart from his desire to have Stack out of the country between dusk and dawn. The blood on his face and the strange sight of him riding a Maltese Cross horse stirred Nona to a curious pitch. But Rock moved fast, told her nothing, and got away again.
He made the round trip in an hour. As he drew up on the brink of the ravine, Stack walked up to meet him, carrying on his back Rock’s saddle which he had stripped from the dead horse.
“I reckoned you’d want this,” he said genially.
Rock sat on his own horse, watching the man ride away. Stack headed south. As far as Rock could see him, he bore straight for Fort Benton. He would never turn back, Rock felt assured. Stack had shot his bolt. There was a certain strange relief in that. He marveled at the queer compound of savagery, cupidity, cunning and callousness that characterized such a man. They were rare, but they did exist.
Stack admitted that Hurley had shot Doc Martin. He admitted that he and Hurley were to share five hundred dollars for ambushing Rock. He didn’t seem to have any emotion about it, except a mild shame over his failure. He didn’t seem to regard Rock with anything except a grudging admiration for beating him at his own game. Owning himself beaten, he withdrew. And, at that, Rock muttered to himself, Stack had nothing on Buck Walters when it came to vileness and treachery.
Rock turned his horse and rode homeward, reaching the TL about supper time. He was tired. His head ached intolerably, now that the bleeding had ceased. When he took off his hat and removed the handkerchief compress, he could feel the slash cut by that bullet. A quarter of an inch lower! By such narrow margins chance operates. Rock sat on the side of his bed, wondering if he should wash and bandage that wound. Now he began to fear that it might give him a good deal of trouble. He hoped not, because, unless he had guessed wrong, some rapid-fire action lay ahead of him. And while he pondered thus, Nona walked into the room.
He scarcely remembered how he had accounted to her for the crimson stains on his face. But her quick glance took in the discolored handkerchief and the matted brown hair. She stood over him with a worried look.
“You are hurt,” she said. “What happened?”
“Fellow took a shot at me—one of Buck Walters’ men. Keep that under your hat,” he warned. “It’s only a scratch.”
She bent over his head and parted the hair with gentle finger tips.