He cut Dalton’s horse a sharp blow. The beast bounded away with a start that almost unseated its dizzy rider; the two free animals galloped after it. Chance Dalton was on his way to Chadron with his burden of disgrace and disastrous news. It seemed a question to Macdonald, as he watched him weaving in the saddle as the gloom closed around him and shut him from sight, whether he ever would reach the ranchhouse to recount his story, whatever version of the tragedy he had planned.
Tom Lassiter drew up before Macdonald’s gate while the dust of Dalton’s going was still hanging there. The gaunt old homesteader with the cloud of sorrows in his eyes said that he had been on his way over to see what had become of Macdonald in his lone hunt for Mark Thorn. He had heard the shooting, and the sound had hurried him forward.
Macdonald told him what had happened, and took him in to see the wreckage left after that sudden storm. Tom shook his head as he stood in the yard looking down at the two dead men.
“Hell’s a-goin’ to pop now!” he said.
“I think you’ve said the word, Tom,” Macdonald admitted. “They’ll come back on me hard for this.”
“You’ll never have to stand up to ’em alone another time, I’ll give you a guarantee on that, Mac.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Macdonald replied, but wearily, and with no warmth or faith in his words.
“And they let that old scorpeen loose to skulk and kill ag’in!”
“Yes, he got away.”