A mile down the railway track from where Centaine's coach stood, two mensat huddled over a smoky campfire watching the maize porridge bubblingin the billy-can and discussing the horses. He brought the Hurricane round still under full throttle, and he pulledhis turn so tightly that the blood drained away from his brain and hisvision turned grey and shadowy. I'm glad you didn't kill him. I always thought you might make acareer- I am, Daddy.
They wereahead of schedule. Butnow he stood before him, tall and deadly with his head shining like abeacon in the moonlight and topaz lights glinting in those leopard eyes. Well, I suppose that's why I wrote it, for people to read. it, the slow grinding of evidence, the sorting of thechaff from the wheat Not now, Abe, she stopped him a
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