"Before I went I wanted to see you," he continued, "an' to tell you I'm right sorry about last night."
There was something so direct and sincere in the way Currie expressed himself that King felt his heart warming towards the man in spite of his recollections from the night before.
"An' that's the reason I'm gettin' out," he said a little stiffly. "Howden, you came in on a bad mess last night—just about as bad as it could 'a' been. If it hadn't 'a' been for you I'd 'a' been lookin' for a place to hide to-day—waitin' for night to come on so I could walk around without bein' scared."
King moved a little impatiently. He didn't wish to have his interference on Currie's behalf made so much of.
"For three years I've been with Old Silent's outfit," Currie went on. "You know what it means for a man to hitch up with his gang. You stay—that's all there is to it. I never did go lookin' for trouble. An' I never went gunnin' before. I got that thing when I left home back east—I thought I'd mebbe need it. I never had trouble with Old Silent—nor with any of his men. There was a few fights—mostly with boys from other camps—but they were all on the square. This man McCartney was the first man who ever tried anything like that. He's a four-flusher—I know that—an' I could a' trimmed him, too—only now—I can't. There won't be another chance for me."
He paused for a moment while he drew meditatively at his cigarette.
"I lost my head—an' I drew on him. There wasn't room there to fight—an' it was his size that counted. Now I'm not going back. I couldn't stay round camp with him on the job. An', besides—I ain't got the nerve any more—I'd be thinkin' all the time of last night."
When he ceased talking King asked him why he couldn't stay in the valley and go on the land.
"No, Howden," he replied, "that's not my line. I'm goin' west. There's more railroadin' out there an' the world's big enough for two of us. I'll go west an' look round a bit. But there's one thing I want you to remember, Howden." He got up as he spoke and King closed the door and prepared to start down the trail. "Bill McCartney's fight is over with me—him an' me don't come together again here—but you an' him will, an' don't forget it. He's a dirty dog—he'll bite when you're not lookin'—but he's not afraid to bite just the same. What's more—he'll go on bitin' unless he gets whipped. Then he'll stop—he'll get out then just like me."
The two men went off together down the trail, and as King walked along in silence he felt the optimism and the buoyancy that had filled him during the earlier part of the day struggling against the melancholy that had haunted him strangely for months. It was not his nature to change his mood quickly, but the warning that Currie had sounded brought upon him the full consciousness that he had an enemy who would never be quiet until he himself had brought him to subjection by nothing but brute strength. He was not afraid, but he had hoped that in the days to come he would only have to take up the struggle that men wage against nature in their efforts to make a living. The thought of having to fight it out with Bill McCartney before he could have any peace weighed upon him in a way that made him feel impatient with himself. He made up his mind, however, that he would never fight until the occasion arose that demanded it—then he would see it through to the bitter end. The thought steadied him as he walked along the trail, and his voice became more cheerful as he chatted with Currie.