He laughed. But his laugh was void of merriment, for he had vowed solemnly to himself in prison that some day he would get even with Graham Brenchfield. And, so far as Brenchfield was concerned, the iron was still in Phil Ralston’s soul.
As he sat there, the vision of an angel face came back to him; the picture of a girl of small frame, fairy-like, agile, bending over him as he lay faint and wounded on the floor of her little bungalow up on the hill overlooking Vernock. And it settled his mental uncertainty.
He would go back there! It was a free and bracing life in that beautiful Valley, and, God knows! that was what he required after five years of confinement. He could pick up his strength while at work on the farms, or among the orchards, or on the cattle ranges. Lots of things he could do there!
No one would know him,––no one had seen him before but she and Brenchfield. She would never recognise him––shaved and clean––for the broken, ragged wretch whom she had befriended. As for Brenchfield––he would know Phil anywhere, in any disguise, but Phil knew how to close his mouth tighter than a clam.
Besides, there was the settlement to be made between Brenchfield and himself.
Yes!––Vernock was the place of all places for Phil Ralston.
He went back to the hotel, dressed himself in the best clothes he had, paid his score and packed his grips. And that night he was speeding eastward.
On the following afternoon he landed at the comparatively busy little ranching town of Vernock, where he had decided to try out his fortune.
He left his grips at the station and sauntered down the Main Street. There were few people about at the time and all were evidently too intent on their own particular 49 business to pay much attention to a new arrival. He passed a commodious-looking hotel, built of wood, typically western in style, with hitching posts at the side of the road, a broad sidewalk and a few steps up to a wide veranda which led into an airy and busy saloon.