"But that ain't no reason why I should let him die after he's had an accident," he told himself. "I'll get him to Okar—to the doctor. Then, after the doc patches him up—if he can—an' I still think he needs killing I'll do it."
So he brought Dale's horse near. The animal had had a long rest, and had regained his strength.
Sanderson bent to Dale and lifted his shoulders, so that he might get an arm under him, to carry him to his horse. But at the first movement Dale groaned and opened his eyes, looking directly into Sanderson's.
"Don't!" he said, "for God's sake, don't! You'll break me apart! It's my back—it's broke. I've felt you workin' around me for hours. But it won't do any good—I'm done. I can feel myself goin'."
Sanderson laid him down again and knelt beside him.
"You're Sanderson," said Dale, after a time. "I thought it was Nyland chasin' me for a while. Then I heard you talkin' to your horse an' I knew it was you. Why don't you kill me?"
"I reckon the Lord is doin' that," said Sanderson.
"Yes—He is. Well, the Lord ain't ever done anything for me."
He was silent for a moment. Then:
"I want to tell you somethin', Sanderson. I've tried to hate you, but I ain't never succeeded. I've admired you. I've cussed myself for doin' it, but I couldn't help it. An' because I couldn't hate you, I tried my best to do things that would make you hate me.