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Updated: June 14, 2025
If you'll read the verses above and below, you'll see it doesn't. We're to feed our enemies when they are hungry. We're to do them good for evil." "That's all right for common, every-day enemies, but the Roush clan ain't that kind," explained the boy stubbornly. "It shore is laid on me to destroy 'em root an' branch, like the Bible says."
The wounded man drank the water, and presently the sickness passed. He saw a little crowd gather. Some of them carried out the body of Hugh Roush. They returned for that of his brother. "Dave ain't dead yet. He's still breathing," one of the men said. "Not dead!" exclaimed Clanton. "Did you say he wasn't dead?" "Now, don't you worry about that," cautioned Prince.
For though the net of the round-up had gathered hundreds of stolen cattle and most of those engaged in the business of brand-blotting, Prince knew his job would not be finished if Roush and Albeen escaped. He quartered over the ground foot by foot. The camp of the rustlers had been here and the footsteps showed there had been three. Yankie was accounted for. That left Roush and Albeen.
Albeen was one of those fire-eaters who would play into his hand by his reckless courage. Better have patience and watch for his chance against the one-armed gunman. "I ain't aimin' to ride you any, Albeen," he said sulkily. "Lay off'n me, then," advised the other curtly. Roush grumbled something inaudible. It might have been a promise. It might have been a protest.
The chill eyes of Albeen, narrowed to shining slits, focused on Roush menacingly. All present understood that he was offering Devil Dave a choice. He could draw steel, or he could side-step the issue. The campers had been playing poker with white navy beans for chips.
"You mean well, but you'll never win a roping contest, Syd," jeered Clanton. "Good of you an' all my old friends to gather here to see me off, I see you back there, Roush. It's been some years since we met, an' me always lookin' for you to say to you a few well-chosen words. I'll shoot straighter next time." The vigilantes raised a howl of fury. They were like a wolf pack eager for the kill.
The men whom he holds in the subjection of fear will all be taking a chance with him. So Mysterious Pete, bad man and murderer, coward at heart to the marrow, strutted toward his rooming-house with a heart full of hate to everybody. The pleasant morning sunshine was an offense to him. A care-free laugh on the breeze made him grit his teeth irritably. Particularly he hated Dave Roush.
"I tell you I'm not goin' with you. Quit pesterin' me." His devil-may-care laugh trod on the heels of her refusal. He guessed shrewdly that circumstances were driving her to him. The girl was full of resentment at her father's harsh treatment of her. Her starved heart craved love. She was daughter of that Clanton who led the feud against the Roush family and its adherents.
The man-hunter on the ledge flung a bullet against the protecting boulder. His laugh of cruel derision drifted across the cañon. "Run to earth at last, Ranse Roush!" he shouted, "I swore I'd camp on your trail till I got you you an' the rest of yore poison tribe." From the trapped wretch quavered back a protest. "Goddlemighty, I ain't done nothin' to you-all. Lemme explain."
But Dave had observed the sureness of his motions and he accepted nothing as of chance. The experience of Roush was that a gunman lives longer if he is cautious. His fingers closed on the butt of the revolver at his side. "My name is James Clanton." Roush let fall a surprised oath. "It's 'Lindy Clanton you look like! You're her brother the kid, Jimmie." "You've guessed it, Devil Dave."
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