“Oh!” she whispered, drawing closer in the embrace of his arms. “I am glad! And you won’t hurt him now; you can’t!”
For a little he held her to him, tightly pressed, as if defying the world to take her away from him. And then slowly his arms loosened and dropped to his side. For again he had seen Johnny Watson’s face staring up at him through the faint light of the dawn; again he realized that because she was Dalton’s daughter, Dalton was none the less his partner’s murderer.
“What is it?” she asked softly. “Isn’t it all right now?”
“It is all wrong, Virginia, dear,” he said bitterly. “And this only makes it more and more wrong. Don’t ask me anything more. Only go back to your father and let me think things over. I—” his voice was hard and steady—“I don’t know what is going to happen. I don’t think that I am going to kill him. Will you kiss me good night, dear?”
He watched her as she went slowly through the night, watched her as for a moment she stood in the dim rectangle of light made by the open door, and then had only the darkness and the shooting flames of his camp-fire about him.
“Johnny!” he muttered when at last there was but a dead pile of ashes where his fire had been. “If I don’t kill him—if he kills me instead—it will be all right, won’t it, Johnny?”
CHAPTER X
JUSTICE
The day had come, and Dick Farley was firm and calm in his determination. But the thing which the day was to bring need not come yet. There was no call for haste, while there was an urge deep down in his soul to spend this day alone. He turned his back upon the cabin and went, walking rapidly, down to the quiet shore of the lake.
Until now he had scarcely more than glanced at Johnny Watson’s map. The Cup of Gold had seemed the small thing which gold is always when come the great, vital issues of life. But now it was different; now he could see a reason in going on over Johnny’s trail, in finding the hillside that was “rotten with gold.” This was something which must be done before he looked into Dalton’s eyes again—for the last time.
A long, curving line along one side of the brown cigarette paper was marked in painfully small letters, “East Shore.” A dotted line marked “Trail” ran along this. “High Cliffs” indicated the spot where Farley had attempted to climb up to the plateau, where he had fallen. The dotted line ran on by this, close to the lake shore, and was marked “2 mile.” Then there was a little triangle with the words “Big White Rock.” Here the dotted line swerved at right angles—to the east—“200 paces.” Here was the word, “Cañon.” That was all upon one side of the paper. Upon the other, written lightly was: