The edge of Andrew’s alertness was suddenly
dulled. The last name swept into his brain a
wave of meaning, for of all words on the mountain
desert there was none more familiar than Henry Allister.
Scar-faced Allister, they called him. Of those
deadly men who figured in the tales of Uncle Jasper,
Henry Allister was the last and the most grim.
A thousand stories clustered about him: of how
he killed Watkins; of how Langley, the famous Federal
marshal, trailed him for five years and was finally
killed in the duel which left Allister with that scar;
of how he broke jail at Garrisonville and again at
St. Luke City. In the imagination of Andrew he
had loomed like a giant, some seven-foot prodigy,
whiskered, savage of eye, terrible of voice. And,
turning toward him, Andrew saw him in profile with
the scar obscured—and his face was of almost
feminine refinement.
Five thousand dollars?
A dozen rich men in the mountain desert would each
pay more than that for the apprehension of Allister,
dead or alive. And bitterly it came over Andrew
that this genius of crime, this heartless murderer
as story depicted him, was no danger to him but almost
a friend. And the other four ruffians of Allister’s
band were smiling cordially at him, enjoying his astonishment.
The day before his hair would have turned white in
such a place among such men; tonight they were his
friends.
After that things happened to Andrew in a swirl.
They were shaking hands with him. They were congratulating
him on the killing of Bill Dozier. They were
patting him on the back. Larry la Roche, who had
been so hostile, now stood up to the full of his ungainly
height and proposed his health. And the other
men drank it standing. Andy received a tin cup
half full of whisky, and he drank the burning stuff
in acknowledgment. The unaccustomed drink went
to his head, his muscles began to relax, his eyes
swam. Voices boomed at him out of a haze.
“Why, he’s only a young kid. One
shot put him under the weather.”
“Shut up, Larry. He’ll learn fast
enough.”
“Ah, yes,” said Larry to himself, “he’ll
learn fast enough!”
Presently he was lifted and carried by strong arms
up a creaking stairs. He looked up, and he saw
the red hair of the mighty Jeff, who carried him as
if he had been a child, and deposited him among some
blankets.
“I didn’t know,” Larry la Roche
was saying. “How could I tell a man-killer
like him couldn’t stand no more than a girl?”
“Shut up and get out,” said another voice.
Heavy footsteps retreated, then Andrew heard them
once more grumbling and booming below him.
After that his head cleared rapidly. Two windows
were open in this higher room, and a sharp current
of the night wind blew across him, clearing his mind
as rapidly as wind blows away a fog. Now he made
out that one man had not left him; the dark outline
of him was by the bed, waiting.
