They saw him come down the slope, carrying himself with a swaggering air of braggadocio, but plainly watchful and suspicious. Terry had come out upon the ledge and she too watched him. He came down swiftly and swung up into the saddle of the horse they had left for him.
And now at last his suspicion was past. His triumph broke out like a streak of evil light.
"I was ready to go," he called, "any time!"
He swung his arm out toward the blue hills of Old Mexico.
"Down there——-"
Barbee whom they had thought dead stirred a little where he lay. The rifle under him he thrust forward six inches.
"Blenham!" he called weakly.
Blenham swung about and fired, again from the hip. But he had fired hastily. Barbee's rifle, resting upon the rock, was steady. Between its muzzle and Blenham's broad chest there was but the brief distance of some fifty feet. The report of Barbee's rifle, the thin upcurling smoke under the new sun—these were the chief matters in all the world for their little fragment of time.
Then Blenham threw out his arms and pitched forward. His foot caught in the stirrup. The frightened horse was plunging, running, dragging a man whose body was whipped this way and that.
"I promised—a long time ago," whispered Barbee, "that I'd get you, Blenham."