Rankin threw an outward motion with his powerful hand.  “Yes, I know; but when I quit moving I want to die.  I know I could get a steam-heated back room in a quiet street of a sleepy town somewhere and coddle myself into a good many years yet; but it isn’t worth the price.  I love this big free life too well ever to leave it.  Most of the people one meets here are rough, but in time that will all change.  It’s changing now; and meantime nature compensates for everything.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then, as though there had been no digression, Rankin went back to the former subject.  “Yes,” he said slowly, “I think you’re right about those being Tom Blair’s tracks.”  He turned and faced the younger man squarely.  “If it is, Ben, it means he’s been frozen out from his hiding-place, wherever that is, and he’s crazy desperate.  He’d do anything now.  He wouldn’t ever come back here otherwise.”

Ben Blair’s blue eyes tightened until the lashes were all but parallel.

“Yes,” Rankin repeated, “he’s crazy desperate to come here at all—­especially so now.”  A pause, but the eyes did not shift.  “God knows I’m sorry he ever came back.  I was glad we found that trail too late to follow it to-day; but it’s only postponing the end.  I believe he’ll be here at the ranch to-night.  He’s got to get a horse—­he’s got to do something right away; and I’m going to watch.  If he don’t come I’ll take up the old trail in the morning.”

Once more the pause, more intense than words.  “He can’t escape again, unless—­unless he gets me first—­He must be desperate crazy.”

Rankin arose heavily and knocked the ashes out of his pipe preparatory to bed.

“There are a lot of things I might say now, Ben, but I won’t say them.  We’re not living in a land of law.  We haven’t someone always at hand to shift our responsibility onto.  In self-protection, we’ve got to take justice more or less into our own hands.  One thing I will say, though, and I hope you’ll never forget it.  Think twice before you ever take the life of another human being, Ben; think twice.  Be sure your reasons are mighty good—­and then think again.  Don’t ever act in hot blood, or as long as you live you’ll know remorse.”  The speaker paused and his breath came fast.  Something more—­who knew how much?—­trembled on the end of his tongue.  He roused himself with an effort and turned toward his bunk.  “Good-night, Ben.  I trust you as I’d trust my own son.”

The younger man watched the departing figure and felt the irony of the separation that keeps us silent even when we wish to be nearest and most helpful to our friends and makes our words a mockery.

“Thank you, sir, I shall not forget.  Good-night,” he said.