“He’s crazy,” muttered Duke. “That bullet knocked him crazy, but he’s my pardner and I’m going back, Luck.”
“They kill you!” panted Luck. “My father——”
But Duke Steele was going back down the hill, calling softly the Saint’s name and Luck followed him. There was no sign of him in the path of the coming crowd, so Duke and Luck swung wide, peering into the shadows, until they were almost past the mob, which had not seen them return.
“Gawd!” muttered Duke. “If we could find him now we could double back on them.”
Suddenly the clamoring crowd went silent. It was uncanny. Duke led the way swiftly around the base of a broken ledge and they found themselves just at the rear of the halted mob, a mob as silent as the dead.
Just beyond and above them stood the Saint, a huge figure, back-lighted in the moonlight until it seemed that a halo encircled his great, white head. Silently, like a prophet of old; he reared his huge bulk in their path, as though rebuking them for their evil actions.
Duke caught his breath. It was so unreal, weird.
“Kill him!” grunted Silver Sleed’s voice, but the crowd did not move. It was as though the Saint held a strange power over them. Duke gripped his gun tightly and waited. There was nothing he could do to help the Saint now.
Then, slowly, the Saint began his descent toward the crowd, which parted to let him through. Miners, hardened gamblers, killers, the riff-raff of the new West, drew aside in wonderment or fear of this man.