“And did the man tell you his name?”
“Yes. It was Wayland Sanford.”
Duval Dungarvon growled with anger, cursed with rage, stamped with fury.
Blufe Brandon laughed in his face. This so enraged the robber-captain that he dealt the renegade a blow in the face that sent him heels over head into the brush.
Brandon sprung up, and drawing a knife, rushed upon his robber friend, wild with sudden rage.
The two grappled. Brandon was the larger, and could have easily handled the robber, but he was still quite weak from his affair with Solomon Strange, and their strength was about matched.
“Curse you!” hissed the renegade, “your life shall pay for that blow!”
To and fro the struggling men swayed. Their faces were livid with rage. Thick and fast fell the deadly blows. The ground at their feet grew slippery with their own blood. At last they fell, striking and tugging like maddened beasts. They arose again to their feet, staggered backward and—
Toppling, fell over the cliff and were crushed to atoms, almost, against the jagged rocks as they dropped in the stream at the foot of the Devil’s Tarn.
Two figures came from the shadow of the woods, and walking to the edge of the cliff, looked down into the foam-lashed waters below.