The Orphan looked
keenly at the movement and wondered where he had seen it before, for it
was familiar. His face darkened as memory urged something forward to
him out of the dark catacombs of the past, and he stilled his breathing
to catch a clue to it. He saw the little ranch his father had worked so
hard over to improve, and had fought hard to save, and then the picture of
his dying mother came vividly before him; but still something avoided
his searching thoughts, something barely eluded him, trembling on the
edge of the Then and Now. He saw his father's body slowly swinging and
turning in the light breeze of a perfect day, and he quivered at the
nearness of what he was seeking, its proximity was tantalizing. The
rope!--the rope about his father's neck had been of manila fiber; he
could never forget the soiled, bleached-yellow streak which had led
upward to Eternity. And manila ropes were, at that time, a rarity in
that part of the country, for rawhide and braided-hair lariats had been
the rule. And on the day when he had given Tex his life in the defile he
had noticed the faded yellow rope which had swung at the puncher's saddle
horn. As he strained with renewed hope to catch the elusive impression
another scene came before him. It was of three men bent over a cow,
engaged in blotting out his father's brand, and instantly the face of
one of them sprang into sharp definition on his mental canvas.

"D----n you!" he cried, his finger tightening on the trigger of the
Colt which for so many years had been his best friend. "I know you now,
changed as you are! Now I know why you have been so determined for my
death. On the day that I cut my father down I swore that I would kill
the man who had lynched him if kind fate let me find him, and I have
found him. You have just five minutes to live, so make the most of it, you
cowardly murderer!"

Tex's face went suddenly white again and his nerve deserted him. His Colt
was in his hand, but oh, so useless! Should he fight to the end? A shudder
ran through him at the thought, for life was so good, so precious; far
too precious to waste a minute of it by dying before his time was up.
Perhaps the foreman would relent, perhaps he would become so wrapped
up in the memories of the years gone by as to forget, just for half a
second, where he was. The watch in The Orphan's hand gave him hope,
for he would wait until the other glanced at it--that would be his only
hope of life.

The fo