Venomous and impassioned, all the hate in the man’s heart flowed forth in a fuming stream. For hate and murderous desire was all that was left him in the wreck of life caused by the engineer. If he could no longer rule, he could at least destroy.
Weir had made no response to the fierce imprecations. He was working his hands upward, straining his arms so as to reach Sorenson’s head.
“When the coyotes are gnawing your skull,” Sorenson went on, raging, “when the worms are feeding on you–––”
The words died in a gurgle of pain. Weir’s hands had closed about his temples, a finger sunk in each eye, forcing his head back. Sorenson shook himself frantically to break the torturing hold. His head went farther and farther back as if it seemed his neck would snap; his mouth opened to gasp, “Oh, God!” and all at once his hug slipped apart.
Instantly Weir tripped him, falling on top. Reaching out like a flash he seized his pistol lying on the ground and brought it down on the head of his enemy, who momentarily blinded and suffering could not resist. Sorenson went limp. From the savage beast of a minute before he had been changed to a huge, motionless, sprawling figure, with face upturned to the moon.
And on that face the victor of the life and death struggle could still behold, through the contorted lines stamped by pain, the man’s brutal passion and fixed malevolence.
Weir arose.
“You felt the hound of hell’s teeth,” he muttered.
With thongs from one of the saddles he bound Sorenson’s hands, pulling the knots tight and hard. The prostrate man moaned, opened his eyes. Weir jerked him dazed and staggering to his feet.