At three o’clock in the afternoon Hollis closed his desk and announced to Potter that he was going to the Circle Bar. Potter watched him with a fond smile as he went out the door and placed the saddle on his pony, mounted and rode into the sunshine of the afternoon. The presence of the troopers in town had created a sensation and most of the town’s citizens were gathered about the court house, curiously watching Dunlavey and several of his men who had been taken into custody during the early hours of the morning. Neither Hollis or Norton had been allowed to participate in the final scene, the little captain informing them curtly that the presence of civilians at what promised to be a free-for-all fight was strictly forbidden. And so Norton had returned to the Circle Bar, while Hollis had gone to Dry Bottom to finish an article for the next issue of the Kicker.It had been in that bald, gray time between darkness and dawn when Ben Allen and Hollis, riding at the head of the detail of troopers beside the dapper little captain, had arrived at the edge of the butte where Hollis had directed Norton to await his coming.

Norton’s only comment upon seeing the troopers had been: “Where in hell did them come from?”

He told Allen that he had watched where Dunlavey and his men had driven the cattle, and that he would find them concealed in a narrow defile between two hills about a mile on the other side of the Rabbit-Ear. He and Hollis had announced their intention to accompany the troop to the scene, but had been refused permission by the captain.

The capture of the thieves had been quite a simple matter. In single file the troopers had descended the slope of the river, crossed a shallow, and clattered up the other side. A mile dash at a gallop had brought them to one end of the defile mentioned by Norton, and in a grove of fir-balsam the captain had deployed his troopers and swooped suddenly down into the defile, surprising several men, who with Dunlavey, were busily at work altering the brands on the cattle they had stolen. There was a fire near the center of the defile, with branding irons scattered about it.

The stolen cattle bore various brands. There were perhaps a dozen belonging to the Circle Bar, several from the Pig Pen; others bore the brands of the Three Bar and the Diamond Dot.

Proof of Dunlavey’s guilt had been absolute. He had made some resistance, but had been quickly overpowered by Allen and the troopers. Then with their prisoners the troops had returned to Dry Bottom.

Hollis rode slowly toward the Circle Bar. He was tired–dead tired. When he arrived at the Hazelton cabin the shade on the porch looked so inviting that he dismounted, tied his pony to one of the slender porch columns, and seated himself, leaning wearily against the column to which he had tied his pony.

He sat there long, staring at a clump of nondescript weed that fringed the edge of the arroyo near the cabin, his thoughts filled with pictures of incidents that had occurred to him during his stay in the West. Nellie Hazelton appeared in every one of these pictures and therefore he smiled often.

He had not liked the country when he had first come here; it had seemed to offer him no field for the pursuit of his ambition. Certainly the raising of cattle had never entered into his scheme of things. Yet he now realized that there was plenty of room in this country for success in this particular industry; all a man had to do was to keep up his end until the law came. And now the law had come and he had been partly responsible for its coming. The realization of this moved his lips into a grim smile.

He filled and lighted his pipe, smoking placidly as he leaned against the slender column, his gaze shifting to a clump of dense shrubbery that skirted the trail within twenty feet of the cabin. He sat quiet, his long legs stretched out to enjoy the warmth of the sun that struck a corner of the porch floor. His pipe spluttered in depletion and he raised himself and looked around for his pony, observing that the animal was contentedly browsing the tops of some weeds at the edge of the porch. Then, resigning himself to the sensation of languor that oppressed him, he knocked the ash from the pipe, filled it again, lighted it, and resumed his former reclining position.

During the past few days he had given much thought to Dunlavey. He was thinking of the man now, as his gaze went again to the clump of shrubbery that skirted the trail.

Some men’s mental processes were incomprehensible. Dunlavey was one of these men. What did the man hope to gain by defying the law? Would there not be profit enough in the cattle business when conducted honestly?

He felt a certain contempt for the man, but mingled with it was a sort of grim pity. No doubt Dunlavey felt justified in his actions, for he had lived here a good many years, no doubt suffering the privations encountered by all pioneers; living a hard life, dealing heavy blows to his enemies, and receiving some himself. No doubt his philosophy of life had been of the peculiar sort practiced by the feudal barons of the Old World, before civilization had come, carrying its banner of justice, which, summed up epigrammatically, though ironically, had been “Might is Right.” But might could never be right in this country. Dunlavey must learn this lesson; he could not hope to–!

Hollis sat suddenly erect, putting aside his pipe and his ruminations at the same instant, the languor gone from him, his eyes narrowing coldly.

For suddenly, from behind the shrubbery that skirted the edge of the trail, had appeared the man about whom he had been thinking! It was evident that he had not come upon Hollis unexpectedly. He reined in his pony and sat motionless in the saddle, his face white, his eyes alight with passion.

For an instant neither man spoke. Hollis realized that the great moment for which he had waited many days had arrived. And it had arrived unexpectedly. It had arrived to find him tired after his activities of the night and in no condition for a fight. He drew a deep breath and got to his feet, a grim smile on his face. He stepped off the porch and stood by one of the columns, watching Dunlavey closely. As he watched the grim smile on his face slowly faded, his lips curled bitterly, his eyes chilled.

“I suppose you’ve come to collect that thrashing?” he said.

Dunlavey dismounted quickly, his right hand flew to his holster, drawing his revolver. He came toward Hollis crouching, a cold, merciless glitter in his eyes.

“Yes, you tenderfoot — —.” he snarled.

From the moment of Hollis’s arrival at the court house the night before Ben Allen had been constantly in action. It was late in the morning when he had returned to the court house with his prisoners. The men who had been captured with Dunlavey were still with the troopers, there not being sufficient room at the court house for them. Watkins had been released and Dunlavey had taken his place in the little room that answered for a jail. Shortly before noon Allen proceeded to the station, where he telegraphed to the governor the story of the capture. He had then deputized a dozen punchers and sent them to the Circle Cross to round up a thousand of Dunlavey’s cattle and hold them until the late afternoon when, according to Allen’s published program, they were to be sold to the highest bidder. Then, tired and hungry, Allen sought the Alhambra and ate a hearty meal.

Dry Bottom was swarming with visitors that had come in for the sale. But by the time Allen had finished eating the exodus had begun. The trail leading to the Circle Cross ranch was dotted with probable bidders, curiosity seekers, idlers, and mere residents of the town. Now that the law had come there were many who discovered that their sympathies had always been with the men who had championed it. Allen found his way to the court house strewn with men who halted him to express their good will. Many people gathered in front of the Kicker office, eager for a glimpse of Hollis. Those who gathered there before twelve-thirty saw him seated at his desk, tall, angular, serious of face, absolutely unaffected by this thing which had caused a sensation. Passing the Kicker office on his way to the court house, Allen had paused to look within and shout a greeting to him. Then he had continued on his way.

Arriving at the court house Allen looked in at Dunlavey to find him lying on the floor, apparently asleep. Allen did not disturb him. He went out, threw the saddle on his pony, and rode over to the grove where the soldiers were quartered, talking long with the captain. At two o’clock he returned to the court house to be greeted with the news that Dunlavey had escaped. Allen did not stop to inquire how the escape had been accomplished. He remounted his pony and raced down to the Kicker office, fearing that Dunlavey had gone there. Potter informed him that his chief had departed for the Circle Bar fully an hour and a half before. He had taken the Coyote trail–Potter had watched him.

Allen wheeled his pony and returned to the court house. He was met at the door by Judge Graney. The latter’s face was white and drawn with fear.

“He’s gone to kill Hollis!” the judge told him through white, set lips. “I heard him threaten Hollis this morning and a moment ago a man told me that he had seen Dunlavey, not over half an hour ago, riding out the Coyote trail at a dead run!”

Allen’s own face whitened. He did not stop to answer but drove the spurs deep into his pony’s flanks and rode furiously down the street toward a point near the Kicker office where he struck the trail.

The distance to the Circle Bar ranch was ten miles and Dunlavey had a good half hour’s start! He fairly lifted his pony over the first mile, though realizing that he could not hope to arrive at the Circle Bar in time to prevent Dunlavey from carrying out his design to kill Hollis. No, he told himself as he rode, he could not prevent him from killing Hollis, should he catch the latter unprepared, but he promised himself that Dunlavey should not escape punishment for the deed.

He had had some hope that Dunlavey would accept his defeat philosophically. The latter was not the only man he had seen who had been defeated by the law. Over in Colfax County and up in Wyoming he had dealt with many such men, and usually, after they had seen that the law was inevitable, they had resigned themselves to the new condition and had become pretty fair citizens. He had imagined that Dunlavey would prove to be no exception, that after the first sting of defeat had been removed he would meet his adversaries half way in an effort to patch up their differences. The danger was in the time immediately following the realization of defeat. A man of the Dunlavey type was then usually desperate.

So Allen communed with himself as he rode at a head-long pace down the Coyote trail, risking his neck a dozen times. Not once since he had left Dry Bottom had he considered his own danger.

He had been riding more than half an hour, and was coming up out of a little gully when he came upon a riderless pony, and close by it, browsing near a clump of shrubbery, another. He recognized one of them instantly as Dunlavey’s, and his teeth came together with a snap. He rode closer to the other pony, examining it. On one of its hips was a brand–the Circle Bar. Allen’s face whitened again. He had arrived too late. But he would not be too late to wreak vengeance upon Dunlavey.

He dismounted and cautiously approached the brush at the side of the trail. Parting it, he saw the roof of a cabin. He recognized it; he had passed it a number of times during his exploration of the country. He drew back and crept crept farther along in the brush, certain that he would presently see Dunlavey. But he had not gone very far when he heard voices and he cautiously parted the brush again and peered through.

He started back in surprise, an incredulous grin slowly appearing on his face. The incredulity changed to amusement a moment later–when he heard Hollis’s voice!

The young man was seated on the edge of the porch–smoking a pipe! Near him, seated on a flat rock, his face horribly puffed out, with several ugly gashes disfiguring it, his eyes blackened, his clothing in tatters, one hand hanging limply by his side, the fingers crushed and bleeding, was Dunlavey! Near him, almost buried in the sand, was a revolver. Allen’s smile broadened when he saw Dunlavey’s empty holster. Evidently he had met with a surprise!

While taking in these details Allen had not forgotten to listen to Hollis as the latter talked to Dunlavey. Apparently Hollis had about finished his talk, for his voice was singularly soft and even, and Dunlavey’s almost comical air of dejection could not have settled over him in an instant.

“... and so of course I had to thrash you–you had it coming to you. You haven’t been a man–you’ve acted like a sneak and a cur all through this business. You made a thrashing inevitable when you set Yuma on Nellie Hazelton. You’ll have plenty of marks to remind you of the one you gave me that night.” He pointed to his cheek. “I’ve got even for that. But I think I wouldn’t have trimmed you quite so bad if you hadn’t tried to shoot me a few minutes ago.”

He puffed silently at his pipe for a short time, during which Dunlavey sat on the rock and squinted pathetically at him. Then he resumed:

“I’ve heard people talk of damned fools, but never, until I met you, have I been unfortunate enough to come into personal contact with one. I should think that when you saw the soldiers had come you would have surrendered decently. Perhaps you know by now that you can’t fight the United States Army–and that you can’t whip me. If you’ve got any sense left at all you’ll quit fighting now and try your best to be a good citizen.”

He smiled grimly as he rose from the porch and walked to where Dunlavey sat, standing over him and looking down at him.

“Dunlavey,” he said, extending his right hand to the beaten man, “let’s call it quits. You’ve been terribly worked up, but you ought to be over it now. You ought to be able to see that it doesn’t go. I’ve thrashed you pretty badly, but you and your men used me up pretty well that night and so it’s an even thing. Let’s shake and be friends. If you show signs of wanting to be a man again I’ll withdraw the charge of cattle stealing which I have placed against you, and I imagine I won’t have any trouble in inducing Allen to call off that auction sale and accept settlement of the claim against you.”

Until now Dunlavey had avoided looking at the outstretched hand. But now he looked at it, took it and held it for an instant, his bruised and swollen face taking on an expression of lugubrious self-pity.

“I reckon I’ve got it in the neck all around,” he said finally. “But I ain’t no squealer and I’ve got—” His gaze met Hollis’s and his eyes gleamed with a reluctant admiration. “By God, you’re white! I reckon you could have tore the rest of me apart like you did my hand.” He held up the injured member for inspection.

Allen’s grin could grow no broader, and now he showed his increased satisfaction with a subdued cackle. He backed stealthily out of the shrubbery, taking a final glance at the two men. He saw Hollis leading Dunlavey toward a small water hole at the rear of the cabin; saw him bathing Dunlavey’s injured hand and binding it with his handkerchief.

Then Allen proceeded to his pony, mounted, and departed for the court house to tell Judge Graney the news that kept his own face continually in a smile.