Benson was a weakling, who would no doubt give them further trouble; but they had taken him in hand, and Blake had made up his mind to save him from the rogue who preyed upon his failings.
It was getting late when he saw a faint trail of smoke curl up against the sky from a distant bluff, and on approaching it he checked the jaded pony.

Then he dismounted and, picketing the animal, moved cautiously around the edge of the woods.

Passing a projecting tongue of smaller brush, he saw, as he had expected, Benson sitting beside the fire.

Blake stopped a moment to watch him.

The man's face was weary, his pose was slack, and it was obvious that the life he had led had unfitted him for a long, hard ride.