Slowly he came among them, peering into their faces, as though seeking someone, while they silently stared at him.
“Blood!” muttered Mica Cates, who was near Duke and the girl. “Blood and buzzards.”
Suddenly the Saint stopped. He was looking straight at Silver Sleed now, and Silver Sleed’s right hand held a cocked pistol at his hip, tensed, ready to fire. Then the Saint spoke:
“The trail ends here, Sleed Martin. It has been full of shadows, and I have only a memory—just a memory. I want you, whom men call Silver Sleed. It may only be a nightmare, Martin, but it is real to me—now!”
As the Saint spoke he sprang, like a tiger. Silver Sleed fired, but his bullet smashed into the cliff behind the Saint, and before he could shoot again, the Saint was upon him.
Both of them were giant men, and they crashed together like two grizzlies, while the crowd backed away to give them room, knowing nothing of the reasons for the fight. Luck had started ahead, but Duke drew her back against the rock.
“My God, he’s stronger than Sleed!” gasped a man. “Look at him, will yuh?”
The rest of the crowd watched silently the stranger battle. Silver Sleed was battling for his life while the old Saint, insane with the stored-up hate of years, and with the super-human strength of a madman, battered and crushed Silver Sleed without mercy.
The thudding of mighty blows, the crash of clinches, scraping of feet on the barren rock; but no sound from the mob. For all the movement about them, they might as well have been fighting alone on the mountain top.
Suddenly they drew apart, only to crash together again, but this time Silver Sleed went down, striking the back of his head against the rock. The Saint stood over him, hunched, with arms bent, like the wings of an eagle about to strike, then his arms swept down around Silver Sleed and swung up, with Sleed in his arms. With a mighty heave he swung the unconscious man across his shoulder, turned and lumbered away around the side of the cliffs.