The man ahead was
not Thorpe. Suddenly, looking beyond him, he saw a second figure
pass slowly through the lighted door of the supply-house. Even at
that distance he recognized the gang-foreman. He thrust his
revolver under his coat and fell a little farther behind the man
he had mistaken for Thorpe so that when the latter passed within
the small circle of light that came from the supply-house windows
he was fifty instead of a dozen paces away. Something in the
other's manner, something strangely and potently familiar in his
slim, lithe form, in the quick, half-running movement of his body,
drew a sharp breath from Philip. He was on the point of calling a
name, but it died on his lips. A moment more and the man passed
through the door. Philip was certain that it was Pierre Couchee
who had followed Thorpe.
He was filled with a sudden fear as he ran toward the store. He
had scarcely crossed the threshold when a glance showed him Thorpe
leaning upon a narrow counter, and Pierre close beside him. He saw
that the half-breed was speaking, and Thorpe drew himself erect.
Then, as quick as a flash, two things happened. Thorpe's hand went
to his belt, Pierre's sent a lightning gleam of steel back over
his shoulder.
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