Pideau’s mood as he rode beside the Wolf on the homeward journey was full of ugly possibilities. His thought was searching. It was the guilty, fearful searching of a mind poisoned by terror and hate.
The Wolf—knew!
That was the man’s dominating thought. It had leaped to that fact in its panic. And it overshadowed every other consideration.
The boy—knew!
Pideau summoned the wit that had always served him. What did it mean? What could he do? And he found answers to those questions swimming through his brain like noxious vapors rising from the bowels of evil which were his. The meaning was deadly, and there was only one thing to do. Now was his opportunity. Annette and Luana were still unaware that the Wolf and he had met at the corrals. They were utterly unaware of the boy’s whereabouts. He had carefully ascertained that fact. Well? The boy must never reach the homeward journey’s end.
The Wolf—knew!
He would become a lifelong scourge, a deadly threat. He would become more. The lash of power would remain in the Wolf’s hand to use at any moment he desired to impose his will in any matter.
It was an unthinkable position. It was a thought that maddened. Pideau’s forehead sweated under his cap, and stark red almost blinded him. It should not be. His mind was made up.
He glanced at the youth from the tail of his eye. And as he did so the Wolf’s voice grated in the queer fashion which comes in youth’s approach to manhood.
“Guess you killed enough, Pideau,” he said. “You murdered them p’lice boys. You killed their hosses. Leastways you passed ’em to the wolves. You best finish right ther’. It ain’t any sort o’ use wantin’ to kill me. An’ you can’t anyway.”