Tharon Last, riding close after the calm fashion of a strong man in the face of tragedy, thought pensively of that night in spring when this little old man had taken his life in his hands to save her own.
It was a gift he had given her, nothing less, and she made up her mind that Old Pete should sleep in peace under the pointing pine at Last’s Holding––and that his cross should also stand beside those other two in the carved granite.
Billy, watching, read her mind with the half-tragic eyes of love.
Kenset, seemingly unconscious, but keenly alive to everything, was at great loss to do so.
He hoped, with a surging tenseness, that this fateful thing was sliding over into his hands to work out, his and Banner’s. He knew full well that he and Banner both were like to be slated for an early death, but he did not care. In Corvan, night had fallen when the cavalcade passed through.
Bullard of the Golden Cloud had the grace to come out and look at the little old man who had worked for him so long and faithfully. But 205 that was all. They carried him home to Last’s and buried him decently at dawn.
Then the Vigilantes again rode out. At their head was Tharon; though both Kenset and Billy tried to dissuade her.
At Corvan, Banner went through the town like a wind, asking for the gun of every man he met. By noon every .44 had been examined, one shell exploded. Not one left the nicked, uneven sign of the mysterious hammer which had snapped its death into Old Pete’s heart.
When the sun was straight overhead and all Lost Valley was sweet with the summer haze, the Vigilantes, close packed and silent, swung out toward the Stronghold.
It was blue-dusk when they drew up at the corrals beside the fortress house. Lounging around in cat-like quiet were some thirty men, riders, gun men, vaqueros.