“Of course. Any man would.”
“May I have one?”
“The minute you tell me where that record is.”
The Judge subsided. A moment later Trevison’s voice floated into the chamber, cold and resonant:
“I don’t think you’re in this thing for money, Judge. Corrigan has some sort of a hold on you. What is it?”
The Judge did not answer.
The sun climbed to the zenith. It grew intensely hot in the chamber. Twice during the afternoon the Judge asked for water, and each time he received the answer he had received before. He did not ask for food, for he felt it would not be given him. At sundown his captor entered the chamber and gave him a meager draught from the canteen. Then he withdrew and stood on the ledge in front of the door, looking out into the darkening plains, and watching him, a conviction of the futility of resisting him seized the Judge. He stood framed in the opening of the chamber, the lines of his bold, strong face prominent in the dusk, the rifle held loosely in the crook of his left arm, the right hand caressing the stock, his shoulders squared, his big, lithe, muscular figure suggesting magnificent physical strength, as the light in his eyes, the set of his head and the firm lines of his mouth, brought a conviction of rare courage and determination. The sight of him thrilled the Judge; he made a picture that sent the Judge’s thoughts skittering back to things primitive and heroic. In an earlier day the Judge had dreamed of being like him, and the knowledge that he had fallen far short of realizing his ideal made him shiver with self-aversion. He stifled a moan—or tried to and did not succeed, for it reached Trevison’s ears and he turned quickly.
“Did you call, Judge?”
“Yes, yes!” whispered the Judge, hoarsely. “I want—to tell you everything! I have longed to tell you all along!”
An hour later they were sitting on the edge of the ledge, their feet dangling, the abyss below them, the desert stars twinkling coldly above them; around them the indescribable solitude of a desert night filled with mystery, its vague, haunting, whispering voice burdened with its age-old secrets. Trevison had an arm around the Judge’s shoulder. Their voices mingled—the Judge’s low, quavering; Trevison’s full, deep, sympathetic.