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Peter's affection for Stanley Fyles was probably little less than his master's affection for him. The same thing applied to Sergeant McBain, whose hard face suggested little enough of the tenderer emotions. But both men belonged to the prairie, and the long prairie trail inspires a wonderful sympathy between man and beast.
He could endure all else, whatever life had in store for him, but the thought that he must stand by while Kate be given to another was more than his fate, for all its perversity, could expect of him. From his veranda that morning, as on the morning before, Charlie had seen Kate and Stanley Fyles walking together.
I must pack my grip, and harness my team. You see, I must leave directly after dinner." Fyles accepted his dismissal. He turned to his horse and prepared to mount. Kate followed his every movement with a forlorn little smile. She would have given anything if he could have stayed. But . "Good luck," she cried, in a low tone. "Good luck? Do you know what that means?" Fyles turned abruptly.
The faith of Arizona and the older hands in the official capacity for dealing with these people was a frail thing, but the younger set were less sceptical. And at last Julian Marbolt's tardy invitation to Fyles was despatched. Tresler had watched and waited for the sending of that letter; he had hoped to be the bearer of it himself.
He pointed at the tinted envelope enclosing the telegram. While Fyles took his mail, McBain's keen eyes were at work upon the letters spread out on the counter. Fyles's silent manner induced the curious official to go a step further. "It's from headquarters Superintendent Jason," he said, covertly watching the policeman's face. But the effect was not quite as satisfactory as he hoped.
There's fools who reckon when it comes to shooting that fair play's a jewel. Wal, when I'm up against police butters-in, or any vermin like that, I leave my jewelry right home." O'Brien chuckled voicelessly. "Gas," he cried, in his cutting way. "Hot air, an' gas. I tell you right here, Fyles and his crowd have got crooks beat to death in this country.
His little eyes moved as if in debate, his slow jaws opened once or twice. At last he said: "I'd give the girl the go-by, Mr. Fyles, if I was you, unless I meant to marry her." Fyles suddenly swung round. "Keep your place, blast you, Mallory, and keep your morals too. One'd think you were a missionary."
O'Brien's quick eyes surveyed his half-drunken customer with a shrewd, contemptuous speculation. "That sounds like bluff. Hot air never yet beat the p'lice. It needs a darnation clear head, and big acts, to best Fyles. A half-soused bluff ain't worth hell room." Charlie appeared to take no umbrage.
Tears were coursing down her cheeks, and she sat a poor, suffering, bowed creature whose spirit could no longer support the strain of her remorse. Her confession was complete, and again the horrors of her earlier sufferings were assailing her weakened spirit. Fyles waited for the storm to lessen. He no longer had doubts. His pity was for the reckless heart so hopelessly crushed.
Then Fyles rode away, and, from the moment his horse began to move until it vanished down the cattle track, the muzzle of Charlie Bryant's gun was covering him. His impulse was homicidal. To bring this man down might be the best means of nullifying the effect of Pete's treachery.
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