LITMIR.BIZ

      XVI. BROKEN FAITH

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      His first hundred yards were made at a rapid pace, but after that, finding himself entirely alone and well out of possible observation from behind, he reduced his gait and went on more slowly, more cautiously, keeping a sharp lookout through the tree trunks around him. Indeed, so sensitive had he suddenly become that now and again he paused and whirled toward the movement of a wind-swayed sapling or the swing of a bough. His progress, however, was fairly steady. He paused only to break off a slender dead branch some six feet long, and at the top of this he tied a white handkerchief.

      In this wise he broke from the trees and came into the clearing at the bottom of the hollow. He must now be well beyond earshot of the camp, and suddenly he began to shout: “Doone! Ronicky Doone! Oh, Doone!”

      He repeated the call in a high and piercing wail several times, and yet it was strange that he should expect the man to come to what might well be considered a trap. Strange, too, that he should expect to find him so near the scene of danger. Yet at the third repetition of the call a voice spoke behind him.

      “I’m here. What’s the racket about?”

      He turned slowly, very slowly. It was a maxim with him that quick moves were very dangerous.

      He found himself looking at Ronicky Doone, though the latter was so covered with a mottling of shadows that he was almost rendered invisible. It was a sort of protective coloration—or shadowing, to be more accurate.

      “Been following me long?” said the outlaw, leaning on his branch.

      “Only since you started away from the shacks,” said Ronicky.

      “Well, well,” and Moon sighed, “you sure are handy in a forest. Must of learned young.”

      “Tolerable.”

      “Ain’t it kind of dangerous trusting yourself on foot, when we got so many men to cut in around you on hossback?”

      As a reply Ronicky whistled very softly, so softly that it barely reached the ears of the bandit leader, and out of the denser night of the trees behind Ronicky came the form of Lou. She was almost lost in the sea of shadow. Only her head, with the pricking ears and the bright eyes, appeared at the shoulder of her master.

      “By Jiminy!” exclaimed Jack Moon, smiling with an almost boyish pleasure. “That’s sure a hoss, that one of yours. Lou?”

      “You’ve heard of her?”

      “Everybody that’s heard of you has heard of her, if they have any ears to listen to folks’ talk,” said the other. “She’s handy herself, ain’t she? How come she don’t make any more noise going through a wood?”

      “Training,” answered Ronicky Doone. “Took a pile of pains.”

      “I reckon!”

      “But now she knows enough not to step where the dead leaves are thick or on a branch or nothing like that. Besides, I’ve got her so’s she knows when she ain’t to make any noise like whinnying.”

      “That must of took time, Ronicky!”

      “About two years, training her every day.”

      “You don’t say! Well, you sure are the out-beatingest gent for patience, Ronicky!”

      The other returned no answer. It was very strange to hear them conversing in so frank a manner, making no mysteries with each other—the one asking simple questions, the other answering them with fully as much simplicity. One might have thought them old and familiar acquaintances. Neither had raised his voice since Ronicky answered the third call.

      “How come you to foller so close?” went on Jack Moon.

      “I’m going to kill you, Moon,” said the smaller man, as gentle of voice as ever.

      “The devil you are!” murmured Moon, also without violence. “How come?”

      “They won’t hear the gun. Not with that wood-chopping going on and at this distance.”

      “No, maybe not. And then what?”

      “Hide your body and then drift back to the camp and get Dawn and the girl tonight.”

      “You agin’ a dozen?”

      “A dozen? They’s only a man and a half in that camp. And you’re the whole man, partner.”

      “I take that kind of you, Ronicky.”

      “Don’t mention it.”

      “But they’ll have numbers on you!”

      “Numbers ain’t anything. Not in night work. Not when you got the instinct for shooting. I’d sort of like it.”

      “You would?”

      “Yep. I never met up with so many gents that was all ripe for shooting, Moon. And I sure would like to get busy right among all them targets.”

      “Why don’t you get a job with a sheriff?” asked Moon. “That’d keep your hand in on the work you like.”

      “I wouldn’t make it professional. I ain’t that low. I shoot to kill when I have to, that’s all.”

      “But you sort of like to have to, eh?”

      “I guess that’s it. Ah!”

      The last monosyllable was a snarl of eagerness, and the hand of Ronicky flashed down to his revolver—but it came away again and rested carelessly on his hip. He had mistaken a movement of the outlaw’s right hand.

      “Sorry,” said Ronicky.

      “That’s all right. I got steady nerves. Well, Ronicky, it’s sure fine to have met you after hearing so much about you. And it’s fine to see you so fit.”

      “Thanks,” said Ronicky. “I’m waiting for you to start something, Jack.”

      “Want me to start for my gat first? I never take gifts, Ronicky. They cost too much!”

      “H’m!” said Ronicky. “You’re a queer bird, Jack.”

      “Yep. That’s right. I’m queer. Pretty near as queer as you. You’re so sure you’d beat me if we come to pulling guns.”

      “That ain’t queer,” said Ronicky. “It’s just a feeling you get.”

      “Like shooting in the dark?”

      “Kind of. I know I’m a faster man than you, Jack. Shooting you is pretty near to murder—except that you been such a devil that you deserve a thousand killings.”

      “Thanks! But they ain’t going to be no gun play, son.”

      “No?”

      “I’ve said they wasn’t, and I mean it. You’re going to come back in camp with me. You’re going to come back as one of my men.”

      Ronicky started and then shook his head.

      “You got me figured all wrong,” he said patiently. “I ain’t your kind, Jack.”

      “Nobody is,”

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