Since the cattle trader's story had been told back in the Virginia cabin, until this moment, his mind had been successively scorched with wrath, chilled in despair and buffeted by hurricane violence, but never had it for a tranquil instant been stilled to normality. Over at the Quarterhouse, when in Berserker rage he had been lashing out through a red mist of battle, he had suffered less than since, because in action he was spending the hoarded accumulation of wrath—but since then he had been in the pits of an unbearable hell.
Now at the sight of that unresenting figure, wiping the blood from its lip, a new emotion swept him with a flood of chagrin and self-contempt. He had struck down a friend, defenseless and old, who had sought only to give true counsel. The stubborn spirit that had upheld him as he fought his fever-scalded way over the hills, and remained with him as he watched the wedding ceremony, broke; and with face hidden behind spread palms and a body racked by a spasm of collapse, he shook with dry sobs that come in wrenching incoherence from deep in his chest.
He reeled and rocked on his feet under the tempest of tearless weeping—and like a blind man staggered back and forth, until the preacher, with a hand on each shoulder, had soothed him, as a child is soothed. At last he found the power of speech.
"Fer God's sake, Brother Fulkerson, fergive me ... ef ye kin.... I don't know what I'm doin'.... I'm seein' red." Again his voice vaulted into choleric transports. "Ye says I mustn't call ther Stacys ter bloodshed. Ye're right. Hit's my own private job—an' I'm goin' back thar ter kill him—now! But es fer you, I wouldn't hev treated ye with sich disrespect fer no cause in ther world—ef I hadn't been well-nigh crazed."
"Son, I forgives ye full free ... but ye jest suspicions these other matters. Ye hain't dead sure—and ye hain't ther man ter go out killin' without ye air plumb sartain.... Now will ye set down an' give me leave ter talk a spell?"
The boy dropped upon the edge of the porch and jerked with a palsy of wretchedness, and as he sat the old preacher pleaded.
For a while Bear Cat's attention was perfunctory. He listened because he had promised to listen, but as the evangelist swept on with an earnestness that gave a fire of eloquence to his uncouth words, his congregation of one was heeding him because of the compulsion of interest. He saw a bigger enemy and one more worthy of his warfare behind the malign individual who was, after all, only its figure-head and coefficient.
"Ef them ye loves hed been struck ter death by a rattlesnake—and hit war feasible fer ye, 'stid of jest killin' ther snake, ter put an end ter ther pizen hitself—fer all time—would ye waste strength on a single sarpent?" The eyes of the speaker were glowing with ardor. "Men like Kinnard air snakes thet couldn't do no harm save fer ther pizen of ther copper worms. Hit's because they pertects them worms thet ther lawless stands behind sich men—an' ther law-abidin' fears 'em. Wipe out ther curse itself—an' ye wipes out ther whole system of meanness an' murder." He paused, and for the first time since his outburst Bear Cat spoke soberly.
"Over thar—at ther Quarterhouse—whar they sought ter git Henderson—they warn't nothin' but a yelpin' pack of mad dogs—all fired ter murder with white licker."
Brother Fulkerson nodded.