It came home to Riley that this was a man whose like he had never known
before, and whom he must not, therefore, judge as if he knew him. He
softened his voice. "Gaspar," he said, "keep your head up. Make up
your mind that you'll fight to the last gasp. Why, it makes me plumb
sick to see a grown man give up like you do!"

His scorn rang in his voice, and Gaspar looked at him in wonder.

"You'd ought to be packing yourself full of courage," went on Sinclair.
"Here's your pal, Jerry Bent, coming back. Two agin' one, you'll be.
Ain't that a chance, I ask you?"

But Gaspar shook his head. He seemed even a little amused.

"Not against a man like you, Sinclair. You love fighting, you see.
You're made for fighting. You make me think of that hawk. All beak and
talons, made to tear, remorseless, crafty."

"That's overrating me a pile," muttered Riley, greatly pleased by this
tribute, as he felt it to be. "If you tried, maybe you could do a lot
yourself. You're full of nerves, and a gent that's full of nerves makes
a first-class fighting man, once he finds out what he can do. With them
fingers of yours you could learn to handle a gun like a flash. Start in
and learn to be a man, Gaspar!"

Sinclair stretched a friendly hand toward the shoulder of the smaller
man. The hand passed through thin air. Gaspar had slipped away. He
stood at a greater distance. On his face there was a strong expression
of displeasure.