"I will do that," said Clarence grimly, driving him back with him
into the waiting circle; then turning to them he said slowly, with
deliberate, smileless irony, "And now, my brave gentlemen,--knights
of the bull and gallant mustang hunters,--I want to inform YOU that I
believe that Mr. Peyton was MURDERED, and if the man who killed him is
anywhere this side of hell, I intend to find him. Good! You understand
me! Now lift up the body,--you two, by the shoulders; you two, by the
feet. Let your horses follow. For I intend that you four shall carry
home your master in your arms, on foot. Now forward to the corral by the
back trail. Disobey me, or step out of line and"--He raised the revolver
ominously.

If the change wrought in the dead man before them was weird and
terrifying, no less distinct and ominous was the change that, during the
last few minutes, had come over the living speaker. For it was no longer
the youthful Clarence who sat there, but a haggard, prematurely worn,
desperate-looking avenger, lank of cheek, and injected of eye, whose
white teeth glistened under the brown mustache and thin pale lips that
parted when his restrained breath now and then hurriedly escaped them.

As the procession moved on, two men slunk behind with the horses.

"Mother of God! Who is this wolf's whelp?" said Manuel.

"Hush!" said his companion in a terrified whisper. "Have you not heard?
It is the son of Hamilton Brant, the assassin, the duelist,--he who
was fusiladed in Sonora." He made the sign of the cross quickly. "Jesus
Maria! Let them look out who have cause, for the blood of his father is
in him!"