saw this thing, he, Pete Sweeney, he, Long Pete, whose name alone was terror.  He knew what it meant, he knew what he should do, what he had sworn to do; the muzzles of his two revolvers were already focussed, but he made no move.  His fingers lay as before on the triggers.  Once in unison they tightened; then loosened again.  He did not act, this man.  As his maker was his judge, he could not.  He was wide awake, preternaturally wide awake; he tried to act, tried to send the message that would make the muscles tense; but he could not.  Those two eyes were holding him and he could not.  All this he knew; and all the while that other was coming nearer and nearer.  He began to have a horror of that coming that he could not halt.  The great unshaven jaw of him worked; worked spasmodically, involuntarily.  His skin, flaming hot before, of a sudden felt cool.  The sweat spurted, stood damp on the hairy hands.  Something he had never felt before, something he had observed in others, others like those six in the background, began to grip him; something that whitened his face, that made him feel of a sudden weak—­weak as he had never felt before.  And still those eyes were upon him, still that dark face came closer and closer.  Once more his brain sent the message to kill, once more he battled against the inevitable; and that message was the last.  There was no more response than if he were clay, than if his muscles were the muscles of another man.  In that instant, without the voicing of a word, the deed was done.  That instant came the black chaotic abandon that was terror absolute.  In pure physical impotence, his arms dropped dangling at his sides.  The other was very near now, so near they could have touched, and the cowman tried to brace himself, tried to prepare for that which he knew was coming, which he read on the page of that other face.  But he was too late.  Watching, almost doubting their own eyes, the six saw the end.  They saw a dark hand of a sudden clench, shoot out like a brown light.  They heard an impact, and a second later the thud of a great body as it met the floor.  They saw the latter lift, stumble clumsily to its feet, heard a muffled, choking oath.  Then for a second time, the last, that clenched fist shot out, struck true.  That was all.

For a minute, a long, dragging minute, there was silence, inaction.  Then for the first time the victor turned, facing the spectators.  Deliberately he turned, slowly, looked at them an instant almost curiously,—­but he did not smile.  Twelve arms, that had forgotten to lower, were still in the air—­but he did not smile.  Instead he sought out the stranger in knickerbockers and blouse.

“I came to meet Mr. Craig, Mr. Clayton Craig, and guide him to the B.B. ranch,” he explained, “It is Mr. Landor’s wish.  Is this he?”

CHAPTER VI

THE RED MAN AND THE WHITE