The Padre turned away. It was impossible for him to longer face those earnest young eyes pleading to be allowed to give their life for his liberty. The reckless prodigality of the youngster's heart filled him with an emotion that would not be denied. He moved over to where Cæsar stood, and smoothed the great creature's silky quarters with a shaking hand. Buck's storming he could have withstood, but not--this.
The other followed his every movement, as a beggar watches for the glance of sympathy. And as the moments passed, and the Padre remained silent, his voice, keyed sharply, further urged him.
"Wal?"
But the other was thinking, thinking rapidly of all those things which his conscience, and long years of weary hiding prompted. He was trying to adapt his focus anew. His duty had seemed so plain to him. Then, too, his inclination had been at work. His intention had not seemed a great sacrifice to him. He was weary of it all--these years of avoiding his fellows. These years during which his mind had been thrown back upon the thought of whither all his youthful, headlong follies and--cowardice had driven him. Strong man as he was, something of his strength had been undermined by the weary draining of those years. He no longer had that desire to escape, which, in youth, had urged him. He was almost anxious to face his accusers. And with that thought he knew that he was getting old. Yes, he was getting old--and Buck--Buck was almost his son. He could not see the boy's young life thrown away for him, a life so full of promise, so full of quiet happiness. He knew that that would happen if he persisted. He knew that every word of Buck's promise would be carried out to the letter. That was his way. There was no alternative left now but for him to give way. So he turned back and held out his hand.
"What you say--goes," he said huskily. "I--I hope what we're doing is right."
Buck caught the strong hand in his, and the other winced under his grip.
"Right?" he cried, his eyes shining with a great happiness. "Right? You'll save that old woman the worst crime on earth. You're savin' the law from a crime which it's no right to commit. You're handin' little Joan a happiness you can't even guess at in keepin' your liberty--an' me, wal, you're handin' me back my life. Say, I ain't goin' to thank you, Padre. I don't guess I know how. That ain't our way." He laughed happily. "Guess the score you got agin me is still mountin' right up. I don't never seem to git it squared. Wal, we'll let it go. Maybe it's almost a pity Bob Richards won't never have the chance of thanking you for--savin' his life, too."