“You saw them?” Of course, everybody knew by this time that Gerty had left him! They had taken no pains to spare him, throwing publicly their scorn of him in his face!
“I was at the station. I think I know how you feel. How any man would feel. Plan it, kill him with your hands. Hate him; get it out of you. Kill him before you go to sleep.” Hardin was staring like a sleep-walker. “Get it out of your system; it’s poison. When you leave me”—but Brandon did not intend that to be soon—“go home and write to them both. Then you can sleep. To-morrow, it will be done. Then burn the letter. Satisfy the animal, or it will be at your bedside waiting in the morning. I always write out my anger, before I sleep. Do you remember the Lincoln story? I’ve adopted that.”
Hardin shut his ears to the anecdote with rude intention. Stories! What had he to do with after-dinner stories a night like this? Brandon was walking a little faster. He intended to tire out Hardin. He finished his whimsical reminiscence. “Yes, I always burn those letters. But I write them first. It’s a good way, the Lincoln way.”
Hardin turned on him, his twisted features unpleasant to see. “You think I mean to hurt him, kill him. We are not living in dueling times. I wouldn’t touch the—skunk.”
An ulcer had been pricked. His voice was calmer. The plan came out, the ugly revenge of distorted chivalry and hate and duty. Brandon’s low murmurs of attention passed for assent. Hardin did not notice that they were within sight of the encampment, nor that Brandon wheeled to retrace their steps. He took Brandon back into the beginnings of things, his cramped youth, his ambition, his awakening in that very desert, his final dedication to one woman, one idea. It was a passionate self-eulogy, the relief of the wounded self-esteem. Everything had mocked him. What use were such sacrifices, if this be the end? He demanded an answer of the eternal. As well be a beast—the punishment no worse!
His fury had shouted itself hoarse, stridulous. She was still his wife—he still had a duty to perform, he maintained, the duty of protection. It was grotesque, a Frankenstein of rage, but there was no smile in Brandon’s heart. He waited for the storm to exhaust itself. Even when Hardin had finished, he hesitated; his words must be water, not fuel to those scorching fires.
“It’s good as far as you see it,” he was beginning.
“Of course, it’s right,” thundered Hardin. “She’s not to be thrown aside, my wife—”
“No, but Godfrey’s wife is.” Brandon added no comment.
“Well, what of that? That’s his lookout, isn’t it? He should have thought about that before. I’ll stand by Gerty, God Almighty, until the end.”