The buckboard rumbled down to the grassy trail which stretched from the foot of the hillside to the ranch-house. And now the pale-eyed little man bethought him of the fight Bill had promised him.
Quite unperturbed he looked down at the fierce pair of revolvers hanging at his waist. He was taking no chances this time. He had borrowed these guns from Minky, the same as he had borrowed the mule and buckboard. They were fine weapons, too. He had tried them. Oh, no, if it came to shooting he would give a different account of himself this time. Mr. James must look to himself. So must Abe Conroy. He would have no mercy. And he frowned darkly down at the gigantic weapons.
Now he considered carefully the buildings ahead. The ranch was certainly a fine place. He found it in his heart to admire it, and only felt pity that it was the house of such a pitiable scoundrel as James. And yet he really felt sorry for James. Perhaps, after all, he ought not to be too hard on the man. Of course, he was a wicked scoundrel, but that might be merely misfortune. And, anyway, Jessie, his Jessie, was a very beautiful woman.
His eyes wandered on to the distant hills, catching up the smaller details of interest as they traveled. There were hundreds of cattle grazing about, and horses, too. Then there were the fenced-in pastures and the branding corrals. James must certainly be an excellent rancher, even if he were a scoundrel.
But the place was very still. Strangely still, he thought. There was not even one of the usual camp dogs to offer him its hostile welcome. He could see none of the “hands” moving about. Perhaps they were––
Of course. For the moment he had forgotten that they were not simple ranchers. He had forgotten they were man-hunters. They were probably out on the trail pursuing their nefarious calling. And, of course, Bill knew it. That was why he had told him to drive out on this particular morning. Wonderful man, Bill!
Suddenly the distant neighing of a horse startled him, and he looked across the woods beyond the house, the direction, he calculated, whence the sound came. But there was no horse to be seen. Nothing except the darkling cover of pine woods. It was strange. He was sure the sound came from that direction. No; there was certainly nothing in the shape of a horse out there. There wasn’t even a cow. Perhaps it was a “stray” amongst the trees. So he dismissed the matter from his mind and chirruped at the old mule.
And now he came up to the ranch; and the stillness of the place became even more pronounced. It really was astonishing. Surely there must be somebody about. He pushed his guns well to the front, and drew his prairie hat forward so that the brim shaded his pale eyes. He further shifted his reins into his left hand, and sat with his right on the butt of one of his weapons. Whatever was to come he was ready for it. One thing he had made up his mind to; he would stand no nonsense from anybody––certainly not from James or Conroy.
The old mule plodded on, and, with the instinct of its kind, headed in the direction of the nearest corral. And Scipio was forced to abandon his warlike attitude, and with both hands drag him away into the direction of the house door. But somehow in those last moments he entirely forgot that his mission was a fighting one, and sat shaking the reins and chirruping noisily in the approved manner of any farmer on a visit.
He stared up at the house as he came. His eyes were filled with longing. He forgot the barns, the corrals as possible ambushes. He forgot every thought of offense or defense. There was the abode of his beloved Jessie, and all he wondered was in which part of it lay her prison. He was overflowing with a love so great that there was no room in either brain or body for any other thought or feeling.