Weir went a step nearer and thrust his face forward, jaw set, eyes smoldering.

"Go on, I say," he exclaimed.

But the other did not retreat before him or indeed move at all. A sneer lifted his gray mustache.

"You have a gun; you're a killer; here I am unarmed and in your power," he said. "You intend to take me in; I propose to stay here. If I go to San Mateo, it will be as a dead man. I'll see whether you have the nerve to shoot me down where I now stand. If you have, go to it.

You can then take my body to town, but I'll not have paid the price you name and I'll have the satisfaction of knowing I beat you at the last--in that, at least. Your bragging will be empty. Start your shooting any time you please." The tone spoke complete contempt.

Weir said nothing. The defiance, the supreme audacity of this a.s.sertion, coming so unexpectedly, surprised him and left him at a loss. He would not kill an unresisting man, even Sorenson, his worst enemy. Sorenson in his place probably would not have hesitated to do so, for he had no fine scruples in such matters; but for Steele Weir the thing was no more possible than striking a woman or a child.

It was not a question of nerve, as the other had stated. It was a test of brutality and consciencelessness. To shoot a man while escaping is one thing; to kill him while a prisoner, however contemptuous and brazen, was another. But there are means other than bullets for handling obstinate prisoners.

Weir shifted his weapon so as to grasp the barrel and have the b.u.t.t free.

"I'll leave your execution to the proper officials, if an execution is what you want," he said. "Now will you go?" he demanded, threateningly.

His foe gazed at the clubbed pistol and turned as if to yield. Next instant he whirled, lunging at Weir and flinging his arms about his captor. An exultant exclamation slipped from his lips; his hot breath fell on the engineer's cheek; his eyes glared into those of the man his arms encircled. He had tricked Weir by his pretense of obstinacy, led him to weaken his guard and had him in his grasp.

Weir braced himself to resist the man's effort to force him down.

Strong arms the other had, now doubly strengthened by hate and a belief in victory. All the power of Sorenson's great body was exerted to lift him off his feet, crush him in a terrific bear-hug, put him on his back and render him helpless; and Weir in his turn was tensing his muscles and arching his frame with every ounce of his lean, iron-like frame.

Thus they swayed and struggled in the moonlight, without witnesses. A sinister silent fight, marked only by their fierce breathing and fiercer heart-beats. The pistol had dropped from Steele Weir's hand; instead of attempting to break the other's hold he had yielded to it and pushing his own arms forward had clasped his hands behind Sorenson's back in the wrestler's true defense to such an attack.

Once Sorenson almost had him on his knees, but by a quick powerful upthrust of his legs he regained his upright position. However, it had been a close shave for Weir, for he well knew that his opponent would use any tactics, fair or foul, to kill him if he once lay on his back.

"You hound from h.e.l.l!" Sorenson snarled. "You crippled my boy, and you shall die for that. You've ruined me in San Mateo, and you shall die for that. You jailed Burkhardt and poisoned Gordon and shot Vorse, and you shall die for that. I'm going to choke the life out of you, and grind your dead head into the dust, and then spit on you. That's how I treat snakes. Say your prayers, if you know any, for you'll never get another chance. Your friends won't recognize your remains when I'm done with you."

Venomous and impa.s.sioned, all the hate in the man's heart flowed forth in a fuming stream. For hate and murderous desire was all that was left him in the wreck of life caused by the engineer. If he could no longer rule, he could at least destroy.

Weir had made no response to the fierce imprecations. He was working his hands upward, straining his arms so as to reach Sorenson's head.

"When the coyotes are gnawing your skull," Sorenson went on, raging, "when the worms are feeding on you----"

The words died in a gurgle of pain. Weir's hands had closed about his temples, a finger sunk in each eye, forcing his head back. Sorenson shook himself frantically to break the torturing hold. His head went farther and farther back as if it seemed his neck would snap; his mouth opened to gasp, "Oh, G.o.d!" and all at once his hug slipped apart.

Instantly Weir tripped him, falling on top. Reaching out like a flash he seized his pistol lying on the ground and brought it down on the head of his enemy, who momentarily blinded and suffering could not resist. Sorenson went limp. From the savage beast of a minute before he had been changed to a huge, motionless, sprawling figure, with face upturned to the moon.

And on that face the victor of the life and death struggle could still behold, through the contorted lines stamped by pain, the man's brutal pa.s.sion and fixed malevolence.

Weir arose.

"You felt the hound of h.e.l.l's teeth," he muttered.

With thongs from one of the saddles he bound Sorenson's hands, pulling the knots tight and hard. The prostrate man moaned, opened his eyes.

Weir jerked him dazed and staggering to his feet.

"Up into the saddle with you if you don't want another rap on the head," Steele ordered, bruskly. "And go straight this time. From now on I'll take you at your word and put a hole through your black heart if you try any more tricks."

When his prisoner was mounted, he fastened his ankles together by another thong under the belly of the pony. Weir was taking no chances.

Up into his own saddle then he swung himself.

No exultant curses now came from his captive's lips.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

A FINAL CHALLENGE

The hour was drawing near midnight when Weir and his prisoner entered the town. Most of the women and children of the crowd of Mexicans had gone to their homes, but men yet remained before the court house and in the street, discussing and arguing the exciting events of the night.

In some mysterious manner knowledge that Burkhardt and not Weir was the prisoner in the jail, together with news of Judge Gordon's suicide and Vorse's death, had spread from mouth to mouth. Amazement and incredulity had been followed by an aroused feeling of anger, for to the Mexicans it appeared that the crushing blow dealt the leaders of the town was the arbitrary act of the man they believed a lawless gun-man. Were not Weir's foremen and engineers guarding the jail? Men who were strangers, not even citizens of the county?

But though an undercurrent of feeling ran among the talking groups, gradually increasing as the time pa.s.sed, yet was there no active desire on the part of all or a concerted movement to drive away the seeming invaders of the law. For any such attempt a strong leader was necessary. There was none: Madden frowned upon them, only saying as he moved about that he was executing the law; Sorenson, the dominating figure of the town, and Burkhardt's, Vorse's and Gordon's friend, was strangely absent.

The determined guard about the jail was in itself a deterrent to mob action. Meyers had brought twenty or more men from camp, armed and alert, who with those already about the building const.i.tuted a force to make any crowd of Mexicans, however angry, think twice before seeking to rescue prisoners. But the wish and the spirit were not lacking. Employees of the plotters, men who had received favors from Sorenson or Vorse or Burkhardt, Mexicans of a naturally vicious and unruly temper, were all for rushing the jail. The great number of the people, however, peaceful and indolent, preferred to content themselves with satisfying their curiosity by talk instead of seeking a taste of blood. And so as a result of this divided opinion the hostility for Weir had not expressed itself in an effort to a.s.sail the keepers of the jail.

When he was discovered to have returned to town, this angry feeling a.s.sumed a menacing form. He approached the court house by the side street, Sorenson riding at his side, for it was his plan to lodge his prisoner in the Jail with as much secrecy as possible. Nevertheless in this he was disappointed; men saw him arrive, a.s.sist his prisoner to alight and climb the board fence about the yard; and drawn by the expectation of new events the nearer groups hastened forward.

Weir impelled his man towards the jail.

"Stand back," he commanded the Mexicans.

The latter at first stared in astonishment at beholding the pair, one of whom was San Mateo's foremost citizen, now sullenly advancing with wrists bound. Exclamations burst from their lips.

At that a flash of hope filled Sorenson's breast.

"To my rescue, friends!" he cried, beginning to struggle.

Weir jerked him ahead fiercely and cast fiercer looks at the Mexicans.

"This man is under arrest. And remember I can still shoot straight,"

he warned.

Towards him came Madden running, who in Weir's disappearance earlier in the night he had guessed a pursuit of the cattleman and had therefore returned to the jail. He placed himself at Sorenson's right.

"Whoever tries to take Sorenson from the hands of the law does so at his own peril," he exclaimed.

A few mocking shouts resulted. These were gradually increased until the Mexicans, now being joined by scores of others from the street, became a howling, cursing, hysterical mob, crying Sorenson and Burkhardt's innocence, calling down imprecations on the heads of the sheriff and the engineer, stirred by certain lawless spirits to wilder and wilder pa.s.sion.

Weir and Madden had not been standing still, for the crowd was not yet numerous enough at first or bold enough to attack. Moreover the two men held their pistols well in view. Forcing Sorenson ahead, driving apart those who blocked their way, they pushed across the yard until but a few paces from the jail.

One Mexican, a ranch hand from one of Vorse's ranches, wearing a great high-peaked felt hat and chaps, insolently thrust himself before the trio, spitting at Weir's face and in Spanish begging companions to help him release Sorenson. His right hand was resting on his holster as if but awaiting an excuse to use his gun.

"Get to one side," was Weir's harsh order.