“Duke Steele—” the Saint’s voice was thin, almost a whine—“I’ve lived to kill—kill, do you hear me? Now, I’ve promised—God, why did I——?”
He swung his head as though in pain, and walked away. Duke watched him going slowly down the road, his shoulders hunched, as though the weight of the world rested on his back.
Whom did he live to kill? Why did his promise to Luck change his whole being? Duke frowned and tried to gather some reason for the old man’s feelings, but in vain. The Saint left the road and climbed the hill to a pinnacle of rock, where he sat and stared down the canyon, chin in hands, like a great, white-headed eagle watching for its prey.
It was an hour later that the Saint came back. He seemed older, whiter and very tired. Duke made no mention of what had passed between them, and the Saint did not open the subject. He sat down in the doorway and examined his revolver—an old single-action Colt .45, scarred and polished from much usage. His long, lean fingers seemed to caress the old gun lovingly. There were no notches on the butt of this old gun, but Duke Steele knew that its muzzle had spouted death many times.
Suddenly Duke spoke.
“Saint, what made you old before your time?”
“Old? Before—my—time?” The Saint turned his head and looked at Duke.
“Uh-huh. You ain’t over fifty, are yuh? You ain’t got no right to wear long white hair and whiskers and make folks think you’re as old as the hills.”
The Saint ran his hand under his beard and lifted it in range of his eyes. For several moments he peered at it, as though he had never seen it before.
“Duke, what would I look like without this beard?”