One thing that was strange to me—­leaving fight, action, blood, peril out of the story—­the singular exultation, for want of some better term, that I experienced in recalling Steele’s look, his wonderful cold, resistless, inexplicable presence, his unquenchable spirit which was at once deadly and merciful.  Other men would have killed where he saved.  I recalled this magnificent spiritual something about him, remembered it strongest in the ring of his voice as he appealed to Bo Snecker not to force him to kill.  Then I told how we left a dozen prisoners under guard and went back to the Hope So to find Blome where he had fallen.  Steele’s bullet had cut one of the petals of the rose Snecker had playfully put in the rustler’s buttonhole.  Bright and fatal target for an eye like Steele’s!  Bo Snecker lay clutching his gun, his face set rigidly in that last fierce expression of his savage nature.  There were five other dead men on the floor, and, significant of the work of Steele’s unknown allies, Hilliard and Pickens were among them.

“Steele and I made for camp then,” I concluded.  “We didn’t speak a word on the way out.  When we reached camp all Steele said was for me to go off and leave him alone.  He looked sick.  I went off, only not very far.  I knew what was wrong with him, and it wasn’t bullet-wounds.  I was near when he had his spell and fought it out.

“Strange how spilling blood affects some men!  It never bothered me much.  I hope I’m human, too.  I certainly felt an awful joy when I sent that bullet into Blandy’s bloated head in time.  And I’ll always feel that way about it.  But Steele’s different.”

Chapter 12

TORN TWO WAYS

Steele lay in a shady little glade, partly walled by the masses of upreared rocks that we used as a lookout point.  He was asleep, yet far from comfortable.  The bandage I had put around his head had been made from strips of soiled towel, and, having collected sundry bloody spots, it was an unsightly affair.  There was a blotch of dried blood down one side of Steele’s face.  His shirt bore more dark stains, and in one place was pasted fast to his shoulder where a bandage marked the location of his other wound.  A number of green flies were crawling over him and buzzing around his head.  He looked helpless, despite his giant size; and certainly a great deal worse off than I had intimated, and, in fact, than he really was.

Miss Sampson gasped when she saw him and both her hands flew to her breast.

“Girls, don’t make any noise,” I whispered.  “I’d rather he didn’t wake suddenly to find you here.  Go round behind the rocks there.  I’ll wake him, and call you presently.”

They complied with my wish, and I stepped down to Steele and gave him a little shake.  He awoke instantly.

“Hello!” I said, “Want a drink?”

“Water or champagne?” he inquired.