The younger man bent above the other. “Evered,” he said, “why didn’t you turn the bull from its charge?”
He saw Evered’s face go white, his eyes flickering to and fro. The man came to his feet.
“There was no time!” he exclaimed.
His voice was husky and unsteady; Darrin dominated him, seemed to tower above him. There was about Evered the air of a broken man.
Darrin pointed to the knoll. “You were within half a dozen strides of them. The bull was full thirty yards away.”
He turned abruptly, climbed the knoll. Darrin stood still till Evered was almost gone from his sight, then he shouted, “Evered!” Evered went on; and Darrin with a low exclamation leaped after him. Evered must have heard his pounding steps, but he did not turn. Darrin came up with him; he tugged his pistol from its holster and jammed it against Evered’s side.
“Turn round,” he said, “or I’ll blow you in two.”
Evered did not turn; he did not stop. Dusk had fallen upon them before this; their figures were black in the growing darkness. A pelting spray of rain swept over them, the drops like ice. Above them the hill was black against the gray western sky. Behind them and below the swamp brooded, dark and still. Surrounded by gloom and wind and rain the two moved thus a dozen paces—Evered looking straight ahead, Darrin pressing the pistol against the other’s ribs.
Then Darrin leaped past the other, into Evered’s path, his weapon leveled. “Stop!” he said, harshly. “You wife killer, stop, and listen to me!”