"Starr," he said, turning to the old cattleman, "you have heard and seen what has happened since we sat down." And Waring turned on the cowboy. "How much did Bob Brewster give you for this work?"
"I was to get fifty dollars if I put it through."
"And you put it through! You knew it was crooked. And you call yourself a man! And you took a letter to Pat that called him out to be shot down by that coyote! Do you know that Pat's gun was loaded when I found it; that he didn't have a chance?"
Waring's face grew suddenly old. He leaned back wearily.
"I wonder just how you feel?" he said presently. "If I had done a trick like that I'd take a gun and blow my brains out. God, I'd rather be where Pat is than have to carry your load the rest of my life! But you're yellow clean through, and Bob Brewster knew it and hired you. Now you will take that lame cayuse and ride north just as quick as you can throw a saddle on him. And when you go,"—and Waring rose and pointed toward the doorway,—"forget the way back to this country."
The cowboy shuffled his feet and picked up his hat. Starr got up stiffly and limped to his room. He came out with a check, which he gave to the cowboy.
Waring pushed back his chair as though to step round the table and follow the cowboy, but he hesitated, and finally sat down.
"I'm sorry it happened this way, Mrs. Starr," he said.
"It's awful! And one of our men!"
"That's not your fault, Mrs. Starr."