"In the name of God," said the boy gravely, for he saw a hollow-eyed specter staring toward him from the bed in the corner, "let me pass! I am his son!" It was not that which made them give back, but a shrill, faint cry of triumph from the sick man toward which they turned. Pierre slipped past them and stood above Martin Ryder. He was wasted beyond belief--only the monster hand showed what he had been. "Son?" he queried with yearning and uncertainty. "Pierre, your son." And he slipped to his knees beside the bed. The heavy hand fell upon his hair and stroked it. "There ain't no ways of doubting it. It's red silk, like the hair of Irene. Seein' you, boy, it ain't so hard to die. Look up! So! Pierre, my son! Are you scared of me, boy?" "I'm not afraid." "Not with them eyes you ain't. Now that you're here, pay the coyotes and let 'em go off to gnaw the bones." He dragged out a small canvas bag from beneath the blankets and gestured toward the two lurkers in the corner. "Take it, and be damned to you!" A dirty, yellow hand seized the bag; there was a chortle of exultation, and the two scurried out of the room. "Three weeks they've watched an' waited for me to go out, Pierre. Three weeks they've waited an' sneaked up to my bed an' sneaked away agin, seein' my eyes open." Looking into their fierce fever brightness, Pierre understood why they had quailed. For the man, though wrecked beyond hope of living, was terrible still. The thick, gray stubble on his face could not hide altogether the hard lines of mouth and jaw, and on the wasted arm the hand was grotesquely huge. It was horror that widened the eyes of Pierre as he looked at Martin Ryder; it was a grim happiness that made his lips almost smile. "You've taken holy orders, lad?" "No." "But the black dress?" "I'm only a novice. I've sworn no vows." "And you don't hate me--you hold no grudge against me for the sake of your mother?" Pierre took the heavy hand. "Are you not my father? And my mother was happy with you. For her sake I love you." "The good Father Victor. He sent you to me." "I came of my own will. He would not have let me go." "He--he would have kept my flesh and blood away from me?" "Do not reproach him. He would have kept me from a sin." "Sin? By God, boy, no matter what I've done, is it sin for my son to come to me? What sin?" "The sin of murder!" "Ha!" "I have come to find McGurk." CHAPTER 4 Like some old father-bear watching his cub flash teeth against a stalking lynx, half proud and half fearful of such courage, so the dying cattleman looked at his son. Excitement set a high and dangerous color in his cheek. "Pierre--brave boy! Look at me. I ain't no imitation man, even now, but I ain't a ghost of what I was. There wasn't no man I wouldn't of met fair and square with bare hands or with a gun. Maybe my hands was big, but they were fast on the draw. I've lived all my life with iron on the hip, and my six-gun has seven notches.