“Steal it,” he answered, at which Dextry grinned delightedly at his loose-jointed companion, and Slapjack showed his toothless gums in answer, saying: 

“He sure is.”

A few more words and Glenister, accompanied by these two, slipped out into the whirling storm, and a half-hour later the rest followed.  One by one the Vigilantes left, the blackness blotting them up an arm’s-length from the door, till at last the big, bleak warehouse echoed hollowly to the voice of the wind and water.

Over in the eastern end of town, behind dark windows upon which the sheeted rain beat furiously, other armed men lay patiently waiting—­waiting some word from the bulky shadow which stood with folded arms close against a square of gray, while over their heads a wretched old man paced back and forth, wringing his hands, pausing at every turn to peer out into the night and to mumble the name of his sister’s child.

CHAPTER XIX

DYNAMITE

Early in the evening Cherry Malotte opened her door to find the Bronco Kid on her step.  He entered and threw off his rubber coat.  Knowing him well, she waited for his disclosure of his errand.  His sallow skin was without trace of color, his eyes were strangely tired, deep lines had gathered about his lips, while his hands kept up constant little nervous explorations as though for days and nights he had not slept and now hovered on the verge of some hysteria.  He gave her the impression of a smouldering mine with the fire eating close up to the powder.  She judged that his body had been racked by every passion till now it hung jaded and weary, yielding only to the spur of his restless, revengeful spirit.

After a few objectless remarks, he began, abruptly: 

“Do you love Roy Glenister?” His voice, like his manner, was jealously eager, and he watched her carefully as she replied, without quibble or deceit: 

“Yes, Kid; and I always shall.  He is the only true man I have ever known, and I’m not ashamed of my feelings.”

For a long time he studied her, and then broke into rapid speech, allowing her no time for interruption.

“I’ve held back and held back because I’m no talker.  I can’t be, in my business; but this is my last chance, and I want to put myself right with you.  I’ve loved you ever since the Dawson days, not in the way you’d expect from a man of my sort, perhaps, but with the kind of love that a woman wants.  I never showed my hand, for what was the use?  That man outheld me.  I’d have quit faro years back only I wouldn’t leave this country as long as you were a part of it, and up here I’m only a gambler, fit for nothing else.  I’d made up my mind to let you have him till something happened a couple of months ago, but now it can’t go through.  I’ll have to down him.  It isn’t concerning you—­I’m not a welcher.  No, it’s a thing I can’t talk about, a thing that’s