The stranger was silent.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Wayland. “Tell me what you’re doing out here.”
“Seeing a friend of mine.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jim Silver.”
“Great thunder!” exclaimed Wayland. “Jim Silver?”
Jimmy Lovell sneered at him. “That’s his name,” he agreed.
“Well,” said Wayland, “maybe I’m wrong—maybe I’m all wrong, and I’ll apologize afterward if I am. But in the meantime, I’ve got to search you!”
“You try to fan me,” said Lovell, “and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“Maybe I shall,” answered Wayland. “But I’ve got to go through you and your saddle pack there.”
He saw the nostrils of Lovell quiver and expand. The little black eyes shone brighter than ever.
“I’m going to fan you,” said Wayland. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to do it.”
“What’s your reason?” demanded Lovell. “Who you think I am?”
“I may have half a million reasons,” said Wayland grimly. “Keep your hands up and turn your back to me again.”
Lovell trembled like a leaf with his rage, but, seeming to realize that struggling was useless, he began to turn his body slowly. Wayland stepped closer. For one moment he was thinking about the future, not about his captive, and in that instant Lovell, still keeping his hands stretched high above his head, kicked straight for Wayland’s gun.
He got it and the hand that held it. The blow tore the heavy Colt out of Wayland’s grasp, battered his fingers to numbness, and Lovell dived at him, jerking at his own gun as he came in.
They struck together and went down, rolling. But Lovell was a cat. He had the cowardice of a cat and the fighting passion. He was much smaller than Wayland, but he knew how to handle himself. His gun stuck in its holster, so he snatched out a knife instead. He liked a knife better, when all was said and done, than any number of revolvers, when it came to hand-to-hand fighting.
Wayland, clumsily struggling, found his wind gone, and had a chance to curse the years in the bank that had softened his muscles and made him less than half a man.
Small as Lovell was, the little wild cat already was on top, and Wayland saw the flash of a knife.
That flash would have been enough to make most men yell for mercy. It merely made Wayland forget his weakness and fear. He set his jaw hard and gripped at the wrist of Lovell’s knife hand. His lean fingers got hold and kept their grip. The face of Lovell, as he twisted and raged to tear the knife hand free, was an utterly detestable and hideous mask of murder. He frothed at the mouth in his vehement desire to drive the knife into this long, lanky fellow. Wayland chopped his fist against Lovell’s temple.
Lovell stopped spitting and cursing like a mad cat. He stopped tugging to get at the knife. Wayland struck again and saw a far-away look in the eyes of the other.
A convulsive twist and heave of the body did the rest. Then he found himself sitting on top of the smaller man, with the knife safely in his own grip. He reached down and pulled the Colt from the holster, where it had stuck to resist Lovell’s impatience.
Lovell had gone limp. He lay like a rag on the ground, staring at Wayland with a passive hate, while the fingers of Wayland probed the clothes, the pockets of his captive.
A wave of helpless rage came over Lovell.
“I had you down. I could have split your wishbone.”
“You could,” said Wayland. “You would have done it in another minute. But I’ll give you a better break than that. If you haven’t got what I want, I’ll do you no harm.”
He took a length of twine that he had found in the pocket of Lovell and tied the wrists of the man behind his back. Then he stood up. Lovell struggled to his feet and stood swaying, gasping, cursing under his breath.
“Jim Silver—what’ll he do to you?” breathed Lovell. “What’ll Jim do to you when he gets his big hands on you?”
“Nothing,” said Wayland. “Not if I’m right and you’re wrong.”
He went to the mustang and opened the two saddlebags. There was nothing of importance but odds and ends in one of them. The other was stuffed tight with paper, and that paper consisted of packets of greenbacks.
Wayland untied the saddlebag and took it under his arm.
Then he turned back to Lovell. He could not hate the man as much as he wanted to.
“You’re the fourth man, then,” said Wayland.
“I deny everything,” snarled Lovell. “I ain’t going to talk. You lie—that’s all you do. I found—the saddlebag. I found it—lying on the ground. I found it, and that’s all.”
“You’re the fourth man,” said Wayland calmly. “I ought to take you back to Elkdale and let the sheriff get you. It’s my duty to do that. You’re the sneak who cut adrift from your partners after they’d saved your life and put the loot in your hands. You deserve hanging a lot more than the rest of ‘em, but I don’t want any man to die on account of me. And I’m going to turn you loose. I know that I’m a fool, but I’m going to turn you loose.”
The bandit batted his little bright eyes rapidly. He began to breathe more deeply, also.
“Listen to me, partner, will you?” he said.
“What’s on your mind?” asked Wayland.
“If you get that loot—and you’ve got it—you can’t use it—not while I’m adrift. But listen to me. We’ll make a split. Fifty-fifty, and we both keep our mouths shut. I’ll be your friend; I’ll stand behind you and—”
Wayland lifted his hand.
“Not fifty-fifty,” whined Lovell. “Two for you and one for me. That’s fair, ain’t it? I got hold of the stuff. I’ve kept it with three murdering devils on my trail. Listen to me, Wayland. Gimme a break, will you? There’s more money there than any gent needs. There’s—there’s—half a million!”
Wayland waved his hand toward the distance.
“Get out!” he commanded.
Lovell pulled in a great breath, but the foul outburst of language that was choking him, he swallowed. He knew that life was more than he deserved to keep out of this adventure. So he managed to hold his tongue. He only glared at Wayland for another moment, and then jerked himself about and went up the slope.
He got to his mustang. Without the use of his hands, he could not mount the little horse or ride it, once in the saddle. So he took the reins and went on, leading the broncho behind him.
Wayland watched him go. He saw the man turn on the verge of the trees and look back at him with a convulsed face. He felt as a man feels when he has escaped from the toils of a monster of the sea. Lovell did not seem a mere human peril. There was a poisonous darkness about him that exceeded ordinary malice.
Wayland turned quickly away. He saw the spot where the grass had been trampled by his fight with Lovell. He saw the bloodstained body of the rabbit near by. A sudden fear came over him and dimmed the brightness of his happiness, for he realized that he had half a million dollars under his arm—and he was still a long distance from the vault of a safe bank!
XV—A BIT OF PAPER
The best way seemed the straightest way. Oliver Wayland sighted the first two main landmarks on his course and headed for them. His way took him over the foot of Iron Mountain and finally through a long ravine that was as straight as the barrel of a rifle. The rocks came down in great jags on either side. The sun of the early afternoon filled the canyon with a mass of trembling flames, as it were. The brain was stunned, and the eye burned with the heat.
He accepted this pain gladly because he felt that it would be the final misery that he would have to endure. He was on the last road of his journey toward respectability, and therefore he lengthened his strides along the way.