“Did you get his gun?” she heard her voice asking.
He gave a laugh which sent shivers down her spine.
“Gun, hell! My bare hands have got me through this far, and they’ll go the rest of the way!”
They clattered down the slope, hit the canon.
Behind them was a great commotion of shots and shouts. The girl realized that there was mounted pursuit, but whether they were gaining or not she could not tell.
Dan Harder knew every inch of the trail. He pushed the horses forward at top speed.
Half an hour passed. They were in the mountain pass now, working their way upward between great dark walls which shut out the stars.
A horse whinnied ahead.
“Who is it?” called a voice in Spanish.
“The Federals. Surrender at once!” yelled Harder.
There was no further conversation from ahead, but they could hear the pounding hoofbeats of the horse.
“Here’s hoping he stampedes the others,” muttered Harder.
The sounds of pursuit were dropping behind. It had been the grim personality of The Wolf, the subtle cruelty of Juan Ayala, which had kept the bandits in some semblance of military organization. With those removed they lacked the incentive to push onward.
The canon walls came closer together. The trail wound upward in a series of zigzags.
“You remember the letter you wrote me?” asked the girl softly.
Harder thought of her remarks about his hands.
Perhaps, he thought, she was going to break it to him easy now, let him down gently. Perhaps she was going to try to apologize for her feeling.
He would forestall all that.
“No,” he said shortly.
She became silent.
They rode upward. All pursuit had quit or dropped so far behind it could not be heard. Through the silence of the calm night they pushed their jaded horses.
The summit showed before them. There was no guard. The men ahead had spread the alarm of the defeat, the pursuing Federals. The bandits had scurried away from the main trail, taken to the mountain wilderness. They knew full well what capture would mean.
The trail sloped gently downward.
The east changed color. The stars shrunk to pin-points.
“I heard what you said to your father about my hands,” said Dan, blurting forth the words sullenly.
She looked at him in surprise.
“Come on, faster,” he said, and spurred his wearied horse to greater speed.
The east became golden, crimson. The sun burst into view. Below them lay the white buildings of a city, the place into which Rita had come by railroad. The bandit troops would never come within striking distance of the railroad.
“Safe now,” said Harder, but did not slacken the speed of his horse.
An hour later they clattered through the street, went directly to the railroad station.
Harder swung stiffly from his mount, helped the girl from hers. Once more he felt her eyes upon his hands.
They showed cruel bums. Great blisters had been formed and had had broken. The hair had been singed away. One of Ayala’s pistol bullets had grazed the flesh, leaving a seared streak of red.
Harder moved his hands uncomfortably.
The girl’s slender hands grasped one of his great paws, raised it swiftly to her lips.
Dan Harder stood stupefied. Then he caught the direction of the girl’s eyes, and followed her gaze.
Standing against a corner of the railroad station, his white face mirroring incredulity and shame, stood Vincent Shaffer.
As Harder’s eyes rested upon him he slunk around the corner, away from their sight.
The girl’s eyes turned to Dan’s.
“I meant that. I think they’re wonderful, those hands!”
And then he caught her to him, for her eyes showed that she meant what she had said. The events of the past twenty-four hours had taught her much of character.
And as they embraced in the warm sunlight of early morning, Vincent Shaffer, the fastidious dresser, owner of the shapely hands, slunk down the side streets like a whipped cur, ashamed to face them, ashamed to face himself.