Sam laid finger on a clean gash in Lon’s coat. “Wind didn’t do that, did it?”
“No,” said Lon; but he limped to Groche and studied the prostrate figure for a moment before he went on:
“No; knife done it—’twas his only good jab at me.”
Lon drew a little nearer the fire, but kept a wary eye on Groche. His voice was gaining strength, though he still spoke huskily.
“Wal, three of us started from the camp, you know. Stub picked up the trail. It led north. That meant the critter was steerin’ for the Canady line. But the storm turned him back—that’s how I got him.”
“You alone?” asked Sam eagerly.
“I’m comin’ to that. One time it seemed ’sif the blow was goin’ to spoil our chances, for it drifted the trail over; but it headed Groche off, too. He knew he couldn’t buck a blizzard. So, finally, he give up and made a ’bout face. We three’d separated—spread out, you know—lookin’ for his tracks. So there wa’n’t nobody with me when, all of a sudden, I clumb over a little rise, and there was Mr. Peter leggin’ it before the wind for all he was wuth. And I was right atop of him, ’most. And then I got this.” And Lon touched the cut in his coat.
“But you had a pistol, hadn’t you?”
Lon’s smile was grim. “Kane had seen that I was heeled proper, but I’d sot my heart on roundin’ up my man without makin’ a sieve of him. Why, I’d even took a rope along to hog-tie him. So I didn’t shoot. I jest clubbed the revolver and patted him over the head with it till the butt broke off. By that time, though, he was ready to quit.”
“Great Scott, but what a fight it must have been!”