The girl’s eyes looked me over, and there was something of a caress in
her look. To my surprise I found that I understood her better through
silence than I had been able to understand many other women through
words. Between us there was some tangible bond of psychic affinity
which, though invisible, linked us together in a common bond. I could
feel it, struggle against it as I might. I am Black Barr, the killer,
and the love of a good woman is not for me. Had the girl spoken I would
have been rude, have shattered her faith in me, but she did not speak,
merely penetrated the inner silences of my soul.
And then the Chinaman broke into his weird chant, a wild, ululating hymn
of pagan hate.
“You heap killum!” he said at length, ceasing his music, his beady eyes
glowing like polished ebony.
I endeavored to explain to him and to the girl at the same time. “I am
the executioner of Fate, Wing Lee. I go ridum my horse. Maybe Fate
gettum tired somebody. She send me. Man he fight me. I killum, then go
’way.”
He looked at me without nodding, and I noticed that there was a flicker
of red in the whites of his eyes.
“You allee samee execlutioner for Fate,” he singsonged, “I allee samee
deputy for devil,” and, with that, his hand plunged into his sleeve and
drew out—a long, legal-looking document. It was the quitclaim deed for
the homestead, properly signed and acknowledged by Ed Boswell. In the
upper corner was a spatter or two of blood.
Gravely I bowed to the devil worshipper and passed the document to the
girl.
She took it in dignified silence. It was almost as though the delivery
of the deed was a part of some strange ceremonial rite. And well it
might be. The Devil’s Deputy and the Executioner of Fate had united to
right a wrong—and the deed vested a complete record title.
[Notes on the Text: This story appeared in _Black Mask_, September,
1928. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States;
copyright status may differ in other countries.]