y," he said. "I'm not a liar, as you've very
impolitely told me. And I'm not playing you dirt, and I haven't fallen in
love with the lady myself, as you seem to think. But she belongs to me,
body and soul. If you don't believe me--why, ask the lady herself, Billy!"

As he spoke, he turned his sneering eyes for the fraction of a second
toward Joanne. The movement was fatal. Quade was upon him. The hand in the
coat pocket flung itself upward, there followed a muffled report, but the
bullet flew wide. In all his life Aldous had never heard a sound like the
roar that came from Quade's throat then. He saw Mortimer FitzHugh's hand
appear with a pistol in it, and then the pistol was gone. He did not see
where it went to. He gripped his knife and waited, his heart beating with
what seemed like smothered explosions as he watched for the opportunity
which he knew would soon come. He expected to see FitzHugh go down under
Quade's huge bulk. Instead of that, a small, iron fist shot upward and
Quade's head went back as if broken from his neck.

FitzHugh sprang a step backward, and in the movement his heel caught the
edge of a pack-saddle. He stumbled, almost fell, and before he could
recover himself Quade was at him again. This time there was something in
the red brute's hand. It rose and fell once--and Mortimer FitzHugh reeled
backward with a moaning cry, swayed for a second or two on his feet, and
fell to the ground. Quade turned. In his hand was a bloody knife. Madness
and passion and the triumphant joy of a demon were in his face as he glared
at his helpless prey. As Aldous crouched lower his shoulder touched one of
the saddles. It slipped from the pile, one of the panniers followed it, and
Quade saw him. There was no longer reason for concealment, and as Quade
stood paralyzed for a moment Aldous sprang forth into the space between him
and Joanne. He heard the cry that broke strangely from her lips but he did
not turn his head. He advanced upon Quade, his head lowered, the long
skinning-knife gleaming in his hand.

John Aldous knew that words would avail nothing in these last few minutes
between him and Quade. The latter had already hunched himself forward, the
red knife in his hand poised at his waistline. He was terrible. His huge
bulk, his red face and bull neck, his eyes popping from behind their fleshy
lids, and the dripping blade in the shapeless hulk of his hand gave him the
appearance as he stood there of some monstrous