Here
he turned the burro loose in the grass near the spring, and then
lay down on his old bed of leaves.
He felt only vaguely, as outside things, the ache and burn and
throb of the muscles of his body. But a dammed-up torrent of
emotion at last burst its bounds, and the hour that saw his
release from immediate action was one that confounded him in the
reaction of his spirit. He suffered without understanding why. He
caught glimpses into himself, into unlit darkness of soul. The
fire that had blistered him and the cold which had frozen him now
united in one torturing possession of his mind and heart, and
like a fiery steed with ice-shod feet, ranged his being, ran
rioting through his blood, trampling the resurging good, dragging
ever at the evil.
Out of the subsiding chaos came a clear question. What had
happened? He had left the valley to go to Cottonwoods. Why? It
seemed that he had gone to kill a man--Oldring! The name riveted
his consciousness upon the one man of all men upon earth whom he
had wanted to meet. He had met the rustler. Venters recalled the
smoky haze of the saloon, the dark-visaged men, the huge Oldring.
He saw him step out of the door, a splendid specimen of manhood,
a handsome giant with purple-black and sweeping beard. He
remembered inquisitive gaze of falcon eyes. He heard himself
repeating: "OLDRING, BESS IS ALIVE! BUT SHE'S DEAD TO YOU," and
he felt himself jerk, and his ears throbbed to the thunder of a
gun, and he saw the giant sink slowly to his knees.
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