“Has it come to that?” Cayley asked huskily. “Is there no way—no better way? Are you sure that Death mends things?” Presently he put his hand upon Houghton’s arm, as if with a sudden, keen resolve. “Houghton,” he said, “you are a man—I have become a villain. A woman sent me once on the high road to the devil; then an angel came in and made a man of me again; but I lost the angel, and another man found her, and I took the highway with the devil again. I was born a gentleman—that you know. Now I am...” He hesitated. A sardonic smile crept across his face.
“Yes, you are—?” interposed Houghton.
“I am—a man who will give you your wife’s love.”
“I do not understand,” Houghton responded. Cayley drew Houghton back from where they stood and away from the horse.
“Look at that horse,” he said. “Did you ever see a better?”
“Never,” answered Houghton, running him over with his eye, “never.”
“You notice the two white feet and the star on the forehead. Now, listen. Firefoot, here!”
“My God!” said Houghton, turning upon him with staring eyes, “you are—”
“Whose horse is that?” interjected Cayley. Firefoot laid his head upon Cayley’s shoulder.
Houghton looked at them both for a moment. “It is the horse of Hyland the bushranger,” he said. “All Queensland knows Firefoot.” Then he dazedly added: “Are you Hyland?”