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Updated: June 12, 2025
In return Weir fired twice, the first bullet striking the rock and ricocheting off with a loud whine, while the second struck the pistol from Sorenson's hand. Instantly Weir sprang forward. "Show yourself," he ordered. And the kneeling fugitive, disarmed, gripping his bleeding hand, sullenly arose to his feet. "You've led me a chase, but I have you at last," the engineer continued.
He was working his hands upward, straining his arms so as to reach Sorenson's head. "When the coyotes are gnawing your skull," Sorenson went on, raging, "when the worms are feeding on you " The words died in a gurgle of pain. Weir's hands had closed about his temples, a finger sunk in each eye, forcing his head back. Sorenson shook himself frantically to break the torturing hold.
A sinister silent fight, marked only by their fierce breathing and fiercer heart-beats. The pistol had dropped from Steele Weir's hand; instead of attempting to break the other's hold he had yielded to it and pushing his own arms forward had clasped his hands behind Sorenson's back in the wrestler's true defense to such an attack.
"All the way? All the long ride?" "Yes look out!" Janet's words, half a gasp, half a shriek, gave warning of Sorenson's movement, though none was needed. While apparently neglecting to watch the other, Weir had kept the man sharp in the corner of his eye.
Sorenson's hand and pistol appeared and half his face while three shots rattled from his gun, two at the spot where Weir had been and one at him in his new position, which the hiding man had immediately located. The last shot ticked the engineer's sleeve.
Next he stopped the engine and put out the lights, then he got out, felt his gun in its holster and gazed ahead for an instant. A form had passed and repassed before the window Sorenson's figure, of course. Brute, coward, degenerate he was, and to be dealt with as such.
"He's dead," Madden said. "Yes." "Are you hit?" "No. His bullet went past my hip; he never got his gun up." Madden glanced about towards the rear of the room. A command for Sorenson to stop broke from his lips. Next he fired. And Weir swinging his look that way saw Sorenson's form, untouched by the bullet, vanishing through the rear door into the night.
"You got him," he said to Weir, with ominous significance. "One bullet through the head, one through his stomach. He's good and dead." Weir walked forward and inspected that outstretched figure. It was the man whose gaze had been so malevolently fastened upon him as he joined Martinez before Sorenson's office. "Who is he?" he asked. "A strange Mexican.
The refusal on the latter's part to reëmploy the Mexican workmen on their own terms was purely a matter of policy, and the lawyer's first gusty anger had long been forgotten. But not so Sorenson's sneering words of that afternoon. They struck to the heart of his vanity, breeding an animosity that would last. Had not the banker stated that the lawyer should hold no political office whatever?
When they had drunk their coffee and eaten some of Sorenson's food, making their meal before the door, they carried the unconscious man out to the wagon, bearing him in the blanket on which he lay. Other blankets they spread over him. Johnson also placed at the prostrate figure's feet the rest of the eatables in the cabin. "No need to leave this stuff to the pack-rats," said he.
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