“How did the matter touch you, Darrin?” Evered asked; and the rain swept over them in a more tempestuous fusilade.
Darrin said in a husky choking voice: “I’m Dave Riggs’ son. You killed my father.”
Evered, silent a moment, slowly nodded as though not greatly surprised. “Dave Riggs’ boy,” he echoed. “Aye, I might have known.” And he added: “I lost you, years agone. I tried to make matters easier for you, for Dave’s sake. I was sorry for that matter, Darrin.”
Darrin tried to flog his anger to white heat again. “You killed my father,” he exclaimed. “When I was still a boy I swore that I’d pay you for that. And when I grew up I planned and planned. And when I heard about your wife, I came up here, to watch you—find out. I felt there was something. I told you I’d seen Semler, trapped you. You told me more than you meant to tell. And then I got trace of him, followed him. I did it to blast you, Evered; pay you for what you did to me. That’s why.”
He ended lamely; his anger was dead; his voice was like a plea.
Evered said gently and without anger. “It was your right.” And a moment later he turned slowly and went away, up the hill and toward his home.
Darrin, left behind, labored again to wake the exultation he had counted on; but he could not. He had hungered for this revenge of his, but there is no substance in raw and naked vengeance. You cannot set your teeth in it. Darrin found that it left him empty, that he was sick of himself and of his own deeds.
“It was coming to him,” he cried half aloud.
But he could not put away from his thoughts the memory of Evered’s proud dignity of sorrow; he was abashed before the man.
He stumbled back to his rain-swept camp like one who has done a crime.