He
was known as one of the best shots of all that company of men who pursued
criminals and bandits through the State, and drove them over the border.
Few escaped him; and he had a train of lieutenants who adored him. A born
fighter, a born pursuer of men, who loved his desperate life, and gloried
in his conquests. Some called him Bradley the Inexorable. He seldom missed
a shot; and God help those who came into his power.
"We're after Lopez," he said breathlessly. "Been here?" He never wasted
words.
"Yes," Hardy answered. He looked toward Pell's body.
Bradley's quick eyes followed his. "Hello! what's that? Wounded?" he asked.
"Worse--he's dead," Hardy replied.
Bradley stepped close to the still form. "Who did this? Lopez?"
"Yes," from Hardy.
"Got it in the head, eh?" the ranger went on, looking down at Pell, but
with no pity in his face. He was too accustomed to death. A man who had
been killed was just another "case" to him--one of an endless row of
corpses.
Angela came up to the table. "He's really dead?" she breathed, and clung to
"Red's" big arm.
"Who was he?" Bradley inquired.
Hardy motioned to the mute Lucia, sitting so quietly in the chair.
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