Alone, he rode that night into San Juan, his eyes showing the rage which day after day had grown in his heart.  His revolver loose in its holster he visited first the Casa Blanca, Crook Galloway’s old place of sinister reputation.  Some day he must meet Jim Courtot; might not that time have arrived?  God knew he had waited long enough.  But Jim Courtot was not to be found here; nor anywhere in San Juan, though Howard sought him out everywhere.  No, men told him; they had not laid eyes upon Courtot since Howard had last sought him here.

Finally the delivery was made at the local stock pens; the cattle crowded through the narrow defile, were counted and weighed and paid for.  The purchasing agent looked at Howard curiously.

‘You had higher grade stuff last time,’ he said.  ’This bunch isn’t in the same class with the other shipment.’

‘Don’t I know it?’ Howard flared out at him, grown irritable here of late.

He took his cheque, banked it and left town, advancing his men a little money and telling them to cut their holiday short.  Then he saddled his best horse and headed back for Desert Valley the shortest way.  His expenses had been far heavier than they should have been; his receipts lower.  He knew that look he would see in Sanchia’s eyes when again they met; he prayed that the time might come when he could come close enough to Jim Courtot to read and answer his look.  He thought of Kish Taka, and for the first time with anger; Kish Taka should keep his hands off.

Chapter XXIV

The Shadow

There was something awaiting Alan Howard at his ranch house that for a little at least made him forget Sanchia and Courtot and hard climbs ahead in the road he must travel.  Tired as he was and dispirited when he got home late that night he went to bed glowing with content.  At dawn he was in the saddle.  The Longstreets, early risers as they had grown to be, had only finished breakfast when he came racing into Bear Valley, waving his hat to them and calling cheerily.  A first frown came when he saw that Sanchia Murray was breakfasting with them, but the frown did not linger.

‘Good morning, everybody,’ he greeted them.  Helen, sitting in the sun on the doorstep, got to her feet; her father came smiling out to shake hands; even Sanchia, pushing her plate back, rose.  She looked at him searchingly, appearing to note and wonder at his gay mood.

‘No, I won’t light down and have coffee with you,’ he laughed at the invitation.  ’And I won’t stop to eat, having devoured a day’s rations before I hit the saddle.  No, there’s nothing you can do for me, Mr. Longstreet; there’s nothing in the world I want.’  Helen had given him her hand; he held it a little before he would let it free and looked straight down into her eyes and kept on laughing gaily as he declared with certain unmistakable boldness:  ’Right now I’ve got every blessed thing in the wide world I want.’