d for his course
was death, he would pay like a man. He glanced at the cottonwood grove,
wherein were many ghastly secrets, and smiled. His hairless eyebrows
looked like livid scars and his lips quivered in scorn and anger.

As he sneered at Buck there was a movement in the crowd before him and a
pathway opened for Frenchy, who stepped forward slowly and deliberately,
as if on his way to some bar for a drink. There was something different
about the man who had searched the Staked Plain with Hopalong and Red:
he was not the same puncher who had arrived from Montana three weeks
before. There was lacking a certain air of carelessness and he chilled
his friends, who looked upon him as if they had never really known him.
He walked up to Mr. Trendley and gazed deeply into the evil eyes.

Twenty years before, Frenchy McAllister had changed his identity from
a happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care cow-puncher and became a machine. The
grief that had torn his soul was not of the kind which seeks its outlet
in tears and wailing; it had turned and struck inward, and now his
deliberate ferocity was icy and devilish. Only a glint in his eyes told
of exultation, and his words were sharp and incisive; one could well
imagine one heard the click of his teeth as they bit off the consonants:
every letter was clear-cut, every syllable startling in its clearness.

"Twenty years and two months ago to-day," he began, "you arrived at the
ranchhouse of the Double Y, up near the Montana-Wyoming line. Everything
was quiet, except, perhaps, a woman's voice, singing. You entered, and
before you left you pinned a note to that woman's dress. I found it, and
it is due."

The air of carelessness disappeared from the members of the crowd and
the silence became oppressive. Most of those present knew parts of
Frenchy's story, and all were in hearty accord with anything he might
do. He reached within his vest and brought forth a deerskin bag. Opening
it, he drew out a package of oiled silk and from that he took a paper.
Carefully replacing the silk and the bag, he slowly unfolded the sheet
in his hand and handed it to Buck, whose face hardened. Two decades had
passed since the foreman of the Bar-20 had seen that precious sheet, but
the scene of its finding would never fade from his memory. He stood as
if carved from stone, with a look on his face that made the crowd shift
uneasily and glance at Trendley.

Frenchy turned to the rustler and regarded him evilly.