time he was frightened to death, but he felt that he had to kill that man.
"Then he ran. He got on a train. He went two thousand miles. He stayed in a small town a month, then the police were on his trail. He broke away. He went on a ship to the other side of the world. The police dropped in on him, and, in one terrible ten seconds, he shot down and killed three men. He doubled straight back on his trail. He landed in the mountain desert. All he wanted was a chance to play clean—to settle down and be a good citizen. But the law wouldn't let him. It kept dogging him. It kept haunting him. And whereever it crossed his path there was a little cross of blood. And, finally, a good many years later, this youngster of ours, grown into a man, sat in an attic of an old shanty and told another youngster what was coming to him."
"You!" breathed Andrew.
"I," said Allister calmly. "And this is what you have to hear: All the time I thought that I was trying to run away from trouble, but really I was hungry for the fighting. I wanted the excitement. What I thought was fear was simply a set of nerves which could be tuned up to a thrilling point, but which would never break. I'll tell you why. I had the metal in me from the first. In the blood; in my muscles. A queer sort of foreknowledge of things. Lanning, the moment I lay eyes on a man I know whether I can beat him or not. I even know whether his bullet will strike me. Queer, isn't it? And when I meet the man who is going to kill me in a fair fight, I'll know I'm a dead man before the bullet goes through my heart. Oh, it's nothing altogether peculiar to me. I've talked with other men of the ilk. It's a characteristic; it's in my blood; it's iron dust inside me, that's all."
