He was also a police trooper broken to the
iron bond of discipline, and if a bullet from the Marlin was to end his
career, he determined it should if possible also terminate his enemy's
liberty. The gust of rage had gone and left him with the cold
vindictive cunning the Celt who has a grievous injury to remember is
also capable of, and there was contempt but no fear in his voice as he
turned to Courthorne quietly.
"Sure it's your turn now," he said. "The last time I put my mark on
the divil's face of ye."
Courthorne laughed wickedly. "It was a bad day's work for you. I
haven't forgotten yet," he said. "I'm only sorry you're not a trifle
older, but it will teach Sergeant Stimson the folly of sending a lad to
deal with me. Well, walk straight into the bush, and remember that the
muzzle of the rifle is scarcely three feet behind you!"
Trooper Shannon did so with black rage in his heart, and his empty
hands at his sides. He was a police trooper, and a bushman born, and
knew that the rustlers' laden horses would find some difficulty in
remounting the steep trail and could not escape to left or right, once
they were entangled amidst the trees. Then it would be time to give
the alarm, and go down with a bullet in his body, or by some
contrivance evade the deadly rifle and come to grips with his enemy.
He also knew Lance Courthorne, and remembering how the lash had seamed
his face, expected no pity. One of them is was tolerably certain would
have set out on the long trail before the morning, but they breed grim
men in the bush of Ontario, and no other kind ride very long with the
wardens of the prairie.
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