“What is it, Jim?  Lorry?”

He shook his head.  She saw at once that he was dressed for a long ride and that—­an unusual circumstance—­a gun swung at his hip.  He usually wore a coat and carried his gun in a shoulder holster.  But now he was in his shirt-sleeves.  A dread oppressed her.  He was ready on the instant to fight, but with whom?  Her eyes grew big.

“What is it?” she whispered again.

“The Brewster boys got Pat.”

“Not—­they didn’t kill him!”

Waring nodded.

“But, Jim—­”

“In the Red Arroyo on the desert road.  I found him.  I came to tell you.”

“And you are going—­”

“Yes.  I was afraid this would happen.  Pat made a mistake.”

“But, Jim!  The law—­the sheriff—­you don’t have to go.”

“No,” he said slowly.

“Then why do you go?  I thought you would never do that again.  I—­I—­prayed for you, Jim.  I prayed for you and Lorry.  I asked God to send you back to me with your two hands clean.  I told Him you would never kill again.  Oh, Jim, I wanted you—­here!  Don’t!” she sobbed.

He put his arm round her shoulders.  Stooping, he kissed her.

“You are going?” she asked, and her hands dropped to her sides.

“Yes; I told Pat I would get Brewster.  Pat went out with his hand in mine on that word.  My God, Annie, do you think I could ride back to the ranch and face the boys or sleep nights with Pat’s hand reaching for me in the dark to remind me of my word?  Can’t you see where I stand?  Do you think I could look Lorry in the face when he knew that I sat idle while the man that murdered Pat was riding the country free?”

“Pat was your friend.  I am your wife,” said Mrs. Adams.

Waring’s lips hardened.  “Pat’s gone.  But I’m calling myself his friend yet.  And the man that got him is going to know it.”

Before she could speak again Waring was gone.

She dropped to a chair and buried her face in her arms.  Anita came to her and tried to comfort her.  But Mrs. Adams rose and walked to the office doorway.  She saw Waring riding down the street.  She wanted to call out to him, to call him back.  She felt that he was riding to his death.  If he would only turn!  If he would only wave his hand to show that he cared—­But Waring rode on, straight and stern, black hate in his heart, his free hand hollowed as though with an invisible vengeance that was gone as he drew his fingers tense.

He rode north, toward the Starr Ranch.  He passed a group of riders drifting some yearlings toward town.  A man spoke to him.  He did not reply.

And as he rode he heard a voice—­the Voice of his desert wanderings, the Voice that had whispered to him from the embers of many a night fire in the Southern solitudes.  Yet there, was this difference.  That voice had been strangely dispassionate, detached; not the voice of a human being.  But now the Voice was that of his friend Pat softly reiterating:  “Not this way, Jim.”