John Collins sat upon the lurching bench of the wagon, his right wrist linked to a garotter, his left wrist linked to a murderer; his eyes were straining for the first sight of the thing he feared. Before him, on the front seat, the sheriff gossiped lazily to the driver, who idly flicked the lash of his whip across the horses’ sweating flanks. Behind, upon the back seat, the two deputies watched with sawed-off shot-guns across their knees. The wagon rolled slowly, with sudden creaking pitchings, along a dust-heaped road which coiled its way to the summit of a tawny hill. To the east, far down, white flecks danced upon the bay’s green waters, and from the shore breaths of wind came gliding up through the dry wild oats in long silvery undulations.
The horses gained the level and broke into a
