The man was no fool.
He had picked a camp site between two rocks. That way, he could be approached only from in front.
Max sank back into the grass.
He would have to wait until the man was asleep.
He stretched out and looked up at the sky.
When the moon was up, a few hours from now, it would be time for him to move. Until then, it would do no harm for him to rest.
He closed his eyes.
In a moment, he was sleeping soundly.
His eyes opened suddenly and he stared straight up at the moon.
It hung white and high in the sky over him. He sat up slowly and peered over the grass.
The campfire was glowing faintly now, dying slowly.
He could see the shadow of the man lying near the rocks.
He started to inch forward.
The man snored lightly and turned in his sleep.
Max froze for a moment, then the figure was still again and Max inched forward a little farther.
He could see the man's outstretched hand, a gun at the tip of the fingers.
He crawled around behind and picked up a small pebble from the ground beside him. Silently he took the war club from his belt and got up into a half crouch.
Holding his breath in tightly, he threw the stone near the man's feet. With a muttered curse, he sat up, looking forward, his gun in his hand.
He never knew what hit him as Max brought the war club down on his head from behind.
Max came back with the pinto about the time that dawn was breaking in the east.
He tied his horse to the scrub near the others and walked back to look at the man.
His eyes were still closed. He was breathing evenly though there was a smear of blood along his cheek and ear where the club had caught him.
He lay naked on his back on the ground, his arms and legs outstretched tautly, staked to the ground.
Max sat down on the rock and began to whet his knife along its smooth surface.
When the sun came up, the man opened his eyes.
They were dull at first, then gradually they began to clear.
He tried to sit up and became aware that he was tied down.
He twisted his head and looked at Max.
"What's the idee?" he asked.
Max stared at him. He didn't stop whetting his knife.
"I’m Max Sand," he said.
"Remember me?"
Max walked over to him. He stood there looking down, the knife held loosely in his hand.
There was a sick feeling inside him as he looked at the man and pictured what must have happened in the cabin. The image chased the feeling from him.
When he spoke, his voice was calm and emotionless.
"Why did you kill my folks?"
"I didn't do nothing to them," the man said, his eyes watching the knife.
"You got my pa's hoss out there."
"He sol' it to me," the man replied.
"Pa wouldn' sell the on'y hoss he had," Max said.
"Let me up outa here," the man screamed suddenly.
Max held the knife to the man's throat.
"You want to tell me what happened?"
"The others did it!" the man screamed. "I had nothin' to do with it. They wanted the gold!" His eyes bugged out hysterically. In his fear, he began to urinate, the water trickling down his bare legs.
"Le' me go, you crazy Injun bastard!" he screamed.
Max moved swiftly now. All the hesitation that he had felt was gone.
He was the son of Red Beard and Kaneha and inside him was the terrible vengeance of the Indian.
His knife flashed bright in the morning sun and when he straightened up the man was silent.
Max looked down impassively.
The man had only fainted, even though his eyes stared upward, open and unseeing.