wounded, anyway: perhaps the injury was severe enough to end his life before the morning. His watch of the sheep was surely done. And Landy Fargo—the man who even now waited for his report—would find the whole matter to his satisfaction.
A few minutes later José came to the thicket where he had left his horse; then he headed on down the trail. Through the night hours he rode. Not in one chance out of a thousand would the murder be discovered before Alice Crowson returned, three days later, but he didn't care to take that thousandth chance. It might be embarrassing—considering his past record—to explain his presence near the murder. "If you can't buy him over and things do get to the shooting stage," Landy Fargo had said, "no one will find the stiff for three days. You'll be miles away by then, the flock'll be torn to pieces, and we'll be settin' pretty. It's the safest deal you were ever in."
The destruction of the flock, José considered, was not his business. His work was done and the sooner he got out of the immediate vicinity the better it would be for him. He spurred the horse into a slow, easy gallop.
The moon came up, falling dimly upon his burnished skin. It would be no longer possible to mistake his race. He was even darker than Pete, the Indian, his eyes were like jet, his lips were thin and dark and cruel. But he rode well.
