Such were the words that fell upon Merle Macray's ears when he looked into the eyes of the tireless tracker in the little room to which he had led him after the fire at the ranch.
The chamber had been flooded with light by the hand of the hunted man, but Old Broadbrim had arrested his hand in mid-air, and the revolver with which he hoped to clear his path had been rendered useless.
Yes, the man who had crossed the ocean on the trail, knew nothing but success.
With him, as he had said, everything was "fair" when it came to taking the guilty.
Merle could only look into the calm face of Roland Riggs, so-called, and curse himself for not putting an end to his career sooner.
A hundred opportunities had presented themselves, but he had let them slip.
He and Belle Demona had talked over the matter, but had failed in execution.
Old Danny's trap had failed to hold the man-hunter, and he now knew that the end of his own career was near at hand.
But he did not despair.
Belle Demona was still between him and the noose, and their guards, with the exception of Waters, were true.