Without a word the others turned their horses and rode away in different directions. As they went farther from him in the wash of the late light the uncertain hand came down with a jerk. Fear was in his eyes, the deep, quaking fear of the man poor in courage, but he beat it down.
“Boys!” he cried in a panic, “don’t leave me out! For God’s sake, don’t think I ain’t willin’! I’ll be out come day tomorrow!”
The others both stopped and turned in their saddles.
“Glad to hear ye come through, Thomas,” called Jameson, “you ride south along th’ Rockface. You’ll go over Black Coulee way, won’t ye, Dan?”
“I will,” said Hill.
“Good. I’ll go north.”
There was a quiet grimness in the few words, for he who rode north on such an errand tempted fate.
Then the three separated, and there was only 72 the silence and the red light of the dying day at the head of Rolling Cove.
That same evening Tharon Last sat in her western doorway and watched the sun go down in majesty over the weathered peaks and ridges of the Cañon Country.
Billy Brent lounged on the hard earth beside the step, his fair head shining in the afterglow, his grey eyes upon the girl’s face in a sort of idol-worship.