Chapter XXVII
While José Mertos had been riding, Landy Fargo had been busy, too. It wasn't enough just to order things done, and later to learn of their accomplishment. In the hand, more than the brain, lies the gratification of vengeance; and Fargo didn't intend to miss this satisfaction. Riding swiftly, he had lighted the circle of fires in front of the sheep flock.
Exultation was upon him when he saw the red, greedy flames creeping into the trees. It was his long-awaited moment. By no conceivable circumstances could the flock and its shepherd escape. He had prepared for every emergency, blockaded every pass.
The blows that Hugh had dealt him were paid for at last. His dog-pack been laid low, in a still, ugly, curious heap—but there would be other silent ones before this night was done. And there would be less of beauty in these still forms than in those of his slain pets. Everything was square at last. His brutal lips leered and his eyes burned.
When his last fire was ignited, he stopped for a moment of exultation. The red terror was
