erving love's object to the bitter-sweet
end. How long he stood there he did not know. His heart was dead, like
the weathered stone country about him. He knew that he heard Tharon's
voice after a while, that golden voice which had been the bells of
Last's, in rapid question and answer--and Kenset's voice, too, weak
and slow, but filled with joy unspeakable. It was lilting and soft, a
lover's voice, a victor's voice, and presently he caught a few of the
broken words that passed between them--"Clean! Clean! Oh, Tharon,
darling--there is no blood on these dear hands! Tell me you did not
kill Courtrey!"

He heard Tharon answer in the negative.

And then all the world fell about him, it seemed, for a gun cracked
from the trees beyond him and a wasp stung his cheek.

In one instant the sunlight became brilliant again, the joy came back
in the day. Here was something more to do for Tharon, a new task at
hand when he had thought his tasks were all but done.

He whirled, looked, drew his six-gun and began firing at the man who
stood in plain sight just where he had stepped into the Cup from the
mouth of a little blind cut where the stream went out in noise and
lost itself.

This was a big man, sinister and cold and dark, a half-breed Pomo of
Courtrey's gang, a still-hunter who did a lot of the dirty work which
the others refused. Billy had seen him before, knew his record.

Now they two stood face to face and fired at each other swiftly,
coolly. He saw the half-breed stagger once, knew that he had touched
him somewhere. And then a sound cut into the snapping of the shots, a
sound that was like nothing he had ever heard in all his life before,
a sound as savage as the roar of a she-bear whose cub is killed before
her eyes. As he flung away his empty gun and snatched the other, he
moved enough to bring into his range of vision Tharon Last, standing
over Kenset, her mouth open in that savage cry.

Then before he could draw and fire again he saw the prettiest piece of
work he had ever witnessed. He saw the gun woman crouch and stoop, saw
her hands flash in Jim Last's famous backhand flip, saw the red flame
spurt from her hips, and the Pomo half-breed flung up his hands and
fell in a heap, his face in the grass. He did not move. Only a long
ripple passed over his body. He was still as the ageless rocks, as
much a part of eternity. For a moment Billy stood, the gun hanging in
his hand. Then he knew that Tharon was coming towar