Duke shook his head. He knew no one by the name. He knew little about the loss of memory, but felt sure that the bullet, which had scored the Saint’s head, had shocked him back twenty years, and he shuddered as he wondered what must be the Saint’s feeling when he realized that he had lost twenty years of his life.
From below the cabin came the hoarse yelling of a man, like the leader of a wolf-pack sounding a view hello to his comrades when he scents the trail anew. Shouts answered him.
Suddenly the back door crashed open and Luck half-fell inside, panting painfully.
“They know where you are!” she panted. “I got your burro and blankets, but they found me and took them away. Someone made a guess that you were at my house, and my father struck him down for the suggestion, but they are coming to find out.”
“I reckon we’ll meet ’em here,” said Duke slowly, and nodded toward the Saint.
“He’s gone crazy, Luck.”
As Luck looked toward the Saint he raised his head and looked straight at Duke, as he said, “Who has gone crazy, Duke?”
It was the booming voice of the old Saint again. He got to his feet and shook his head, as though to clear his befogged memory.
“They’re cornerin’ us, Saint,” said Duke, “and it kinda looks like the end of the trail.”