hate stew up the system until the fumes go to the head—especially anything so simple as hate for a dog. You had one fight over him with a man you couldn’t afford to have on your trail; but then you always were more or less of a fool, Brent,” Harte remarked dispassionately. “Let’s go in.”
The fourth man had not spoken a word. Once inside Red Hanlin laughed hoarsely.
“Look at Fox,” he said.
Fox Jarrat’s triangular face still twitched from the recent strain, and his little wide-set eyes glittered dangerously.
“Nerves,” said Harte. “Without brains.” He flipped a coin in the air, caught it deftly on the muzzle of his gun and balanced it with a steady hand.
“You’re a cold blooded fiend for a fact,” Brent grunted with grudging admiration.
“Warm blooded,” Harte corrected, “but cold headed. Let’s start. We can ride to the snow line and you bring the horses back.”
They left the cabin, riding single file up a gulch that led away into the hills. Ten miles farther down the Greybull, Flash too, was heading for the hills.
The scent around the cabin had carried his mind
