“You fool! Killin’ the old man won’t save Sleed, and you can’t be sure in this light.”
Suddenly two figures appeared on this ledge, silhouetted against the moon. Sleed had recovered from his injury and was fighting again. They clashed together, blending into one figure. Then the Saint picked Sleed up in his arms, balanced him for a second, and hurled him far out over the abyss.
The man with the rifle dropped it and flung his hands to his eyes, and a hoarse gasp went up from the crowd as Sleed’s body faded out into the depths, falling like a plummet.
The Saint was standing near the edge of the rock, with his arms high above his head as he gazed into space. Then his laughter came down to them, the choking cackle of a maniac. It was the first time that Duke Steele had ever heard the Saint laugh aloud.
Luck was leaning back against the rock, her face as white as snow and with her eyes shut. For a moment Duke thought she had fainted, but her eyes opened and she stared back at the old Saint atop the ledge, still cackling in his glee.
As he lowered his arms and turned, as though to go back into the tunnel, he slipped, fell sidewise, clawing at the rock, which slid away with him. For a moment he seemed to hang, half-off the cliff, but the edge of the rock seemed to crumble away under his weight, and he shot sidewise into space to join Silver Sleed.
Duke had started forward, as though to try and help the Saint, and when he turned back, Luck was gone. Silently the crowd filed past him, wordless from the tragedy they had just seen, forgetting that he was one of the men they had been hunting.
Duke gazed for a long time into the silvered depths of the Alley. From far away came the eerie, wailing cry of a desert coyote. Duke shook his head. Perhaps it was better for the Saint. Memory had only half returned to him; the balancing point which might mean insanity. He had achieved his purpose after twenty years; twenty years of another personality, which urged him on to hunt down the man who had ruined his life. Suddenly Duke realized that Luck was the daughter of the Saint. She had been the lost baby. Sleed was Sleed Martin, the trapping partner of the Saint.
“Twenty years another person,” muttered Duke. “My Gawd! No wonder he looked in that glass and asked me who he was!”