While muttering these things to himself he remounted his horse, turned its head in the direction from which he had come and slowly and thoughtfully began to retrace his steps.
Charles Endicott was a young man. He was well built, strong limbed, easy in his motions, with a clear, strong voice. His brown hair, long and well kept, was pushed back from a square forehead; his gray eyes looked out keenly from under long eyelashes; his nose was shapely, mouth not ungainly, his beard and mustache full and silken. He settled firmly in his saddle as though he belonged there, and his horse bore him as though knowing its master. The manner of his hand upon the bridle-rein seemed to tell that, though his thoughts might be elsewhere, still there was will left behind—will and a soul prepared for any emergency. A face seen by moonlight, it is said, is a heart unmasked. It may not be so in all cases; but it was in this. There was a heart then unmasked, a heart untrammeled by the fetters of conscience or the gyves of moral law. The man was a plotter, the man was a schemer. Perhaps his plots and schemes might come in contravention with right? Then right must of needs go to the wall, for the measure of expediency was the measure of equity with Endicott.
As he passed from the clear space into the wood the animal he bestrode gave a start, which, while it caused no particular emotion in the heart of the rider, was still sufficient to make him look warily around. He thought he saw a gleaming and a glancing some little distance off; he imagined he could hear the tread of some one approaching. He was right in his thought, and in his imagination. The gleaming and glancing were the moonbeams shivering off of the long rifle, and the noise of footsteps announced the approach of Dick Martin.
Endicott at first sight of the man had thrown his hand warily in search of a weapon. But, almost instantly recognizing the man, he suffered it to drop by his side, and, reining in his horse, awaited the issue of the interview which he foresaw was about to ensue.
When Martin was within a few feet he paused, and the two gave a look at each other as though they would read the man confronting to the very soul.
It was Endicott who first broke the silence. He urged his steed onward a few paces, bent down in his saddle and extended his hand, at the same time exclaiming:
"Then it is you, Martin. I had half-suspected as much when I first caught sight of you, and it gave me a shock. We meet as friends, I hope?"
Martin remained standing unmoved, and as though he did not see the proffered hand, and answered, in a cool, careless tone:
"Yes, Endicott, it is I—no more, and no less. I know you've got nerves that are tolerably steady, so I won't show any wonder at your taking this meeting so coolly; but it's kind of unexpected. You've drifted a long way out of your latitude to be floating along Back Load Trail. What's wrong in the East? Are the fools all dead, are the geese not worth the plucking, have the sheep come short in the wool crop, that you come here? Or are you in the stream that sets to the gold-diggings?"
"Bah, don't talk to me about the fools, geese and sheep that I've left behind me! Tell me how it is here. You and I used to understand each other pretty well, ay, and each other's secrets; so, come now; what's the best news in this heaven-forsaken region. Dick Martin doesn't locate here for nothing."