The change in Dawson was instantaneous. The look of sentimental pleading was gone and his eyes flamed with malignant hatred. So sudden and violent was his fury that Scott involuntarily recoiled before it. Dawson sprang to his feet, out of reach, and drew his revolver.
“Fool,” he hissed between his clenched teeth, “you are too good for this world.”
The neighing of a horse in the meadow below stayed his hand for an instant. Furious as he was he realized that he would gain nothing if he freed himself from the charge of being a crook only to be branded as a murderer. He cast a hurried glance toward the meadow.
In that instant Scott hurled himself upon him. He struck up the revolver with his left hand and followed through to Dawson’s chin with his right. The report of the revolver dazed him and the sight of the barrel pointed at his breast had almost made him sick, but he struck that blow with all the desperation of a dying man backed by years of training. Dawson sank down without a sound.
Scott stood dazed for a second hardly knowing what had happened. He half thought that he had been shot. The sight of the smoking revolver still grasped in Dawson’s fingers brought him to his senses with a jerk. He flung himself upon the gun and snatched it from the unresisting hand. He took off Dawson’s belt, turned him over on his face, and bound his wrists together with the belt. He slipped the holster onto his own belt and dropped the pistol into it. One such experience was enough. He knew now how helpless an unarmed man was. He hated a gun but he never wanted to be taken at such a disadvantage again. The vision of the muzzle of that “forty-five” would always be with him if he lived to be a thousand.
The hot sun was blazing down on the unconscious man and Scott dragged him into the shade of the aspens beside the camp. He was trembling from head to foot and now that the excitement was over he felt so weak that he was glad to sit down in the shade and try to think.
He looked out once more across the peaceful waters of the reservoir at those stately guardian peaks and shuddered to think how near he had been a few minutes before to losing his beautiful world forever.
CHAPTER XVIII
A STORM AND A MADMAN
Scott sat for some minutes gazing absently at the rugged mountains. He felt tired and his mind wandered listlessly from one vague something to another, none of them connected with the present situation. The peace and quiet of his surroundings began to soak into him and a lassitude crept over him. He had been under a much greater nervous strain than he had realized and the reaction made him sleepy. He wanted to curl up right where he was and sleep. He had no interest in anything else. His heavy eyes closed wearily and he sank down beside the still unconscious man.