So met father and son the second time in their lives, all unconsciously. For an instant they glared on one another with wild threatening eyes, as the father made his aim more certain and deadly. Was there no lightning in heaven to strike him dead, and save him from this last horrid crime? Was there no warning voice to tell him that this was his son?
None. The bullet sped, and the poor boy tumbled from his saddle, clutching wildly, with crooked, convulsive fingers at the grass and flowers—shot through the the chest!
Then, ere Desborough had disentangled himself from his fallen horse, George Hawker rode off laughing—out through the upper rock walls into the presence of the broad bald snow-line that rolled above his head in endless lofty tiers towards the sky.
Desborough arose, swearing and stamping; but, ere he could pick up his cap, Sam was alongside of him, breathless, and with him another common-looking man—my man, Dick, no other—and they both cried out together, "What has happened?"
"Look there!" said Desborough, pointing to something dark among the grass,—"that's what has happened. What lies there was Charles Hawker, and the villain is off."
"Who shot Charles Hawker?" said Dick.
"His namesake," said Desborough.
"His own father!" said Dick; "that's terrible."
"What do you mean?" they both asked, aghast.
"Never mind now," he answered. "Captain Desborough, what are you going to do? Do you know where he's gone?"