The victor quartered over the ground. Presently he found his revolver and the bowie knife that had slashed his arm. He slid the revolver into its holster and the knife into his boot leg. From the alley he stepped back to the street. The drum was still booming. He guessed that the affray had not taken more than five minutes from start to finish. For the first time he became aware of a throbbing pain in his arm. When he pulled up his sleeve he saw that it was soggy with blood. The sight of the long jagged wound affected him oddly. He leaned against a hitching post for support, overcome by a faintness which surged over him. He laughed grimly. “Blood beginnin’ to scare you at this late date,” he said to himself aloud. This brought him a touch of sardonic amusement. He had passed through three big pitched battles of the war, half-a-dozen skirmishes, and had been slightly wounded twice. For first aid he tied a handkerchief around the wound as best he could, using his free hand and his teeth to make the knot. Ten minutes later he was in the office of a doctor. “You’re lucky,” the doctor said. “Knife ploughed along close to the surface. Didn’t strike an artery. How’d you come to do it?” “I didn’t do it. The other fellow did. With this.” Hugh pulled the bowie from his boot leg. After he had dressed the wound the doctor examined the murderous-looking knife. He handed it back to Hugh with a dry comment. “Did I say you were lucky? That’s a weak word for it. You must carry the left hind foot of a graveyard rabbit caught in the dark of the moon. How did he come to leave that knife behind?” “He didn’t explain why. I kinda gathered he was in a hurry. Probably had an engagement down the street.” The doctor’s keen eyes took in the strong grave face, the splendid figure, the imperturbable composure of the patient. It occurred to him that a Sierra grizzly would be no more dangerous than this man if he were aroused to action. “Did you kill him?” he asked hesitantly. “Not this time,” McClintock answered quietly. When he left, the doctor’s gaze followed him out of the office. He wondered who this light-stepping Hermes could be. In his years of practice he had never met a finer specimen of humanity, judged on a physical basis of health, strength, and coördination of nerves and muscle. CHAPTER XVII A KNIFE WITH FOURTEEN NOTCHES Hugh was feeding his horse next morning when a voice moved wheezily toward him as its owner passed through the stable into the corral. “Old Grimes is dead, that good old man, We ne’er shall see him more,” Budd informed the world at large by way of announcing his arrival. “When’s the funeral, Jim?” asked McClintock. “I’ll be there if it’s soon. Like to be right sure he’s buried. Don’t mind pilin’ a big flat rock on top o’ that single-breasted coat my own se’f.”