"Thank God you are unharmed," he said. "I've come through the night searching for you with hell in my heart and my finger on my trigger, aching to kill him, to shoot him like a mad dog, every foot of the way. I should have given him no chance. I would have shot his heart out. And the score is not even yet. Or, if it is, I want to see it written."
She shuddered a little at the implacability of his voice.
"If he is hiding somewhere, in ambush?"
"There's no cover within pistol range of us. And Jackson can take care of himself. If the liquor has blinded him he won't recover for hours yet, if he ever does. But I mean to be sure before I leave this place. We'll eat first because we all need it. Then we'll find him."
"He's blind, Peter." Her tone puzzled him.
"Would you forgive him—after all he did, all he attempted?"
"God stopped him. God kept me safe. You thanked him for that just now. Hollister went out into the night, blind. You say he may not recover. Is that not punishment enough?"
Sheridan sat stern and silent. The girl studied his face. It was relentless.
"For my sake, Peter," she ventured. "It was I he meant to injure."
"And me, through you. It is for your sake that we shall find him. He shall have no chance to say he carried you off for a day or a night, and embellish his yarn to his own glory with his lying tongue. If I don't put him in his grave I'll make him stand on
