Seastrom came over the plaza, calling, "Clint—hey, Clint. We're set to ride. What next?"
"How do we stand?"
Seastrom cleared his throat. "I reckon we'll have to add Ed Porn and Lou Lester to our boot hill. Dammit all, it's tough; I knew these two fellows like brothers. But I reckon they're riding a better range now. It's a chance we all take, ain't it?"
"So," mused Charterhouse.
"I figure about ten of the wild bunch got away. That won't bother us any. They'll keep running until Casabella's damn far off. I know. As for them that had hard luck—"
"Put them in a building and leave them till morning," cut in Charterhouse abruptly. "We'll be back then to see they get a decent burial. Now, Heck, you take part of the outfit and ride down to Angels with your herd. Stick 'em in the calaboose and if you see Studd or Wolfert there, do the same with those gentlemen. And rule the town until further orders."
"Nothing I look forward to with more pleasure," grunted Seastrom.
Fitz came out of the deeper darkness. "You take the rest of the fellows, and the wagon, and strike for home," Clint told him.
"Where you going?" Seastrom wanted to know.
"I'm staying here for a few minutes to think about it," droned Clint. "Well, you might as well hit the trail."
Both Fitz and Seastrom hesitated, seeming to study out the meaning of Charterhouse's voice. Presently, without answer, they walked across the plaza. Charterhouse watched the horses come in and the rough roping of the renegades. Fitz collected his party and pulled out first, the wagon jolting rather clumsily at the head of the procession. In another short while Seastrom had lined his prisoners out between the barracks; he himself trotted back to Charterhouse.
"Listen, don't expose yourself too much. Don't linger. Some of those fellows that flew the coop might come back to say by-by and have a shot at you. If I hear any such shots heaving across the prairie—"
"If you hear any such shots," interrupted Charterhouse harshly, "keep right on going. Don't come back."
Seastrom shifted in the saddle, softly swore and wheeled away. Charterhouse rose and crossed to the fire, kicking together the burning boards. A shower of hot sparks circled in the night. He watched them wink and vanish and then in slow weariness left the rim of light and settled on a barrack step. The rumor of the departing men died out, the smell of powder smoke faded in the air, and Fort Carson lay silent under the shadow of Dead Man's Ridge. There in the darkness, Clint rolled a cigarette and touched a match. The flare set off the stony triangle of his face, the cold flash of half-shut eyes—all the features drawn with suspense and grim unpleasantness. The match went out and he leaned back to hear the small sounds of night rise from the earth. His cigarette tip glowed and dimmed, but he held it so that no tell-tale light escaped the cup of his hand. Thus he waited, never stirring.
Nor did he move twenty-odd minutes later when the rhythmic advance of a rider sounded down the line of poplars, slacked and became a slow walk. Man and horse cut across the plaza. Steel glinted, and a tall form swayed to one side of the saddle. Charterhouse let a long, slow sigh escape him; this was the end, the climax, the tragic conclusion of Casabella's old story. Good men and bad men, strong men and weak men—Casabella took them all, touched them with its flame of unreason and tempted them to ruin through their weaknesses.
The tall form slipped from the saddle and came into the circle of light. A hand rose and tipped back the broad- brimmed hat. A fringe of yellow hair gleamed to the light. Buck Manners' bold, reckless face stared across the flame tips.
"I knew you'd come," drawled Charterhouse.
Manners started, whirled, and flung himself back again. "Who is it?" he challenged.
"Charterhouse—waiting for you."
Manners' eyes flashed. He bulked larger, more formidable. "So? What the devil has been going on around here? I heard the shooting away off and rode like a condemned man. What happened? Good gosh, man, I have told you before I didn't believe in your policy. If you've brought on a fight—"
Charterhouse rose and came into the light. He tossed away the cigarette like a man come to a definite conclusion. "We'll omit all the preliminaries. You can drop the curtain, Manners. I saw behind it this morning up on the ridge when you rode down to meet Shander and the others."
Manners' face slowly hardened, slowly abandoned all the easy, reckless freedom. "You alone?" he muttered.
"I waited for you. The rest have gone. There's just one question puzzling me. Having all the chips you ever would need, what was your idea in dealing from the bottom of the deck?"
"Does it matter?"
"I wondered," replied Charterhouse, seeming sleepy. "My guess is you like to be the strong man, the top of the heap. I saw it at Angels when we muscled down."
"You're wise," droned Manners. "Too wise. You're the first to guess anywheres near right. But even you don't know what kind of hell fire and torture comes from a man's conscience."
"I can guess," said Charterhouse. "But only a fool would expect to keep his crooked trail secret."
"I chose my men well. Haggerty, Shander, Wolfert, Studd and Curly—they were the only ones who knew my part. The others never caught on. There isn't a man on my own outfit, nor a man on Box M, nor any other living soul in Casabella that knows. Unless you have told!"
"I keep my own counsel."
"I figured so. When I left Box M early this morning, before dawn, I knew you'd come on toward Carson to spy. I set Curly's men to drag the prairie and find you. When they failed I knew there was just one thing left—let you go through with your scheme of fighting. You overheard Curly's plan in Angels. You figured to have your Box M men follow you up tonight and cut into Curly after dark. I knew that. There is nothing I don't know. So I decided to let you go ahead."
"So I'd get a bullet and forget what I'd learned?" suggested Charterhouse. "Well, there was a sense in that. Easier to catch a man by letting him go ahead with his own idea than to chase him. I will admit you had me puzzled. All this horsing around the prairie left me some dubious. Didn't know if Curly was going through with his original business or if he was going to cut behind me and hit Box M. There was just one thing that turned the scales, Manners. I'm giving you credit for one good quality. And that good quality tripped you."
"You knew I'd never let Curly attack the house Sherry Nickum was in!" cried Manners.
"That turned the scales," admitted Charterhouse. "So I hit back for Carson and waited. But I don't understand. Knowing what you did know, why did you let me bait the trap for Curly and Shander?"
Manners stood like a dragoon, magnificent body stiff and square. The firelight darkened his cheeks and accented the brooding flame in his eyes. He seemed to be thinking out his answer and it came slowly. "Because they were getting beyond my control. I wanted them destroyed."
"You succeeded," was Charterhouse's grim answer. "They're destroyed. And so is Haggerty. Which leaves Wolfert and Studd."
"Wolfert was killed in Angels at noon. I had him killed. Studd—Studd will not talk, not if they put him in screws and crack his bones. But he will go, too."
"And that," went on Charterhouse softly, "leaves me."
They stood silent, the licking fire between. Manners lifted his chin. "I would rather die this minute than have Sherry know the truth about me."
"Yet your orders killed her dad—and probably her brother."
A spasm of pain came over Manners' face. "Didn't I tell you," he cried, "I'm answering my conscience for all that? Listen, Charterhouse. You and I are alike. Both physically strong men. Both old in the game. Yet there