The shock of the telegram--the pause it evolved--had given Truedale time
to catch the meaning of White's attitude; now that he realized it, he
knew he must lay certain facts open--he could not wait until his return.
Presently Jim spoke from outside the door.
"I ain't settin' up for no critic. I ain't by nater a weigher or trimmer
and I don't care a durn for what ain't my business. When I _see_ my
business I settle it in my own way!"--there was almost a warning in
this. "I'm dead tired, root and branch. I'm goin' ter take a bite an'
turn in. I may sleep a couple o' days; put off yo' 'splainifyin' 'til
yo' come back ter end yo' days. Take the mare an' leave her by the
trail; she'll come home. Tell old Doc McPherson I was askin' arter him."
By that time Jim had ceased scorching his way to Truedale's soul and was
on the path to his own cabin.
"Looks like yo' had a tussle with the storm," he remarked. "Any livin'
thing killed?"
"No."
"Thank yo'!" Then, as if determined not to share any further confidence,
White strode on.
For a moment Truedale stood and stared after his host in impotent rage.
Was Jim White such a lily of purity that he presumed to take that
attitude? Was the code of the hills that of the Romany gypsies? How dare
any man judge and sentence another without trial?
The effect of the narcotic still worked sluggishly, now that White's
irritating presence was removed.
Pages:
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117