The sight of a horseman riding down the trail from the Flagstaff mine
shook Melissy into alertness.
"Look, dad. It's Mr. Norris," she cried.
Morse, who had not yet recognized him, swung to the saddle, his heart full
of bitterness. Every man's hand was against his, and every woman's. What
was there in his nature that turned people against him so inevitably?
There seemed to be some taint in him that corroded all natural human
kindness.
A startled oath brought him from his somber reflections. He looked up, to
see the face of a man with whom in the dead years of the past he had been
in bitter feud.
Neither of them spoke. Morse looked at him with a face cold as chiselled
marble and as hard. The devil's own passion burned in the storm-tossed one
of the other.
Norris was the first to break the silence.
"So it was all a lie about your being killed, Dick Bellamy."
The mine owner did not speak, but the rigor of his eyes did not relax.
"Gave it out to throw me off your trail, did you? Knew mighty well I'd cut
the heart out of the man who shot poor Shep." The voice of the cattle
detective rang out in malignant triumph. "You guessed it c'rect, seh.
Right here's where the Boone-Bellamy feud claims another victim."
The men were sitting face to face, so close that their knees almost
touched. As Norris jerked out his gun Bellamy caught his wrist. They
struggled for an instant, the one to free his arm, the other to retain his
grip. Bellamy spurred his horse closer. The more powerful of the two, he
slowly twisted around the imprisoned wrist. Inch by inch the revolver
swung in a jerky, spasmodic circle. There was a moment when it pointed
directly at the mine owner's heart. His enemy's finger crooked on the
trigger, eyes passionate with the stark lust to kill. But the pressure on
the wrist had numbed the hand. The weapon jumped out of line, went
clattering down into the dust from the palsied fingers.
Lee ran forward and pushed between the men.
"Here. Ain't you boys got ary bettah sense than to clinch like wildcats?"
he demanded, jerking one of the horses away by the bridle. "No, you don't,
Phil. I'll take keer of this gun for the present." It was noticeable that
Beauchamp Lee's speech grew more after the manner of the plantations when
he became excited.
The cowpuncher, white with anger, glared at his enemy and poured curses at
him, the while he nursed his strained wrist. For the moment he was
impotent, but he promised himself vengeance in full when they should meet
again.