“Twenty-eight ’d fill a purty fair book, countin’ in what I could tell about the men I’ve had dealin’s with,” Thorn reflected, as to himself, leaning against the mantel, frowning down at the floor with bent head.
“Talk till you’re empty, you old fool, and who’ll believe you? Huh! you couldn’t git yourself hung if you was to try!” Chadron’s dark face was blacker for the spreading flood of resentful blood; he pointed with his heavy quirt at Thorn, as if to impress him with a sense of the smallness of his wickedness, which men would not credit against the cattlemen’s word, even if he should publish it abroad. “You’ll never walk onto the scaffold, no matter how hard you try—there’ll be somebody around to head you off and give you a shorter cut than that, I’m here to tell you!”
“Huh!” said Thorn, still keeping his thoughtful pose.
Man-killing is a trade that reacts differently on those who follow it, according to their depth and nature. It makes black devils of some who were once civil, smiling, wholesome men, whether the mischance of life-taking has fallen to them in their duty to society or in outlawed deeds. It plunges some into dark taciturnity and brooding coldness, as if they had eaten of some root which blunted them to all common relish of life.
There are others of whom the bloody trade makes 112 gabbling fools, light-headed, wild-eyed wasters of words, full of the importance of their mind-wrecking deeds. Like the savage whose reputation mounts with each wet scalp, each fresh head, these kill out of depravity, glorying in the growing score. To this class Mark Thorn belonged.
There was but one side left to that depraved man’s mind; his bloody, base life had smothered the rest under the growing heap of his horrible deeds. Thorn had killed twenty-eight human beings for hire, of whom he had tally, but there was one to be included of whom he had not taken count—himself.
As he stood here against the chimney-shelf he was only the outside husk of a man. His soul had been judged already, and burned out of him by the unholy passion which he had indulged. He was as simple in his garrulous chatter of glory and distinction as a half-fool. His warped mind ran only on the spectacular end that he had planned for himself, and the speech from the gallows that was to be the black, damning seal at the end of his atrocious life’s record.
Thorn looked up from his study; he shook his head decisively.
“I ain’t a-goin’ to go back over there in your country and give you a chance at me. If you git me, you’ll have to git me here. I ain’t a-goin’ to sling a gun down on nobody for the money that’s in it, I tell you. I’m through; I’m out of the game; my craw’s full. It’s a bad sign when a man wastes a bullet on a hired hand, takin’ him for the boss, and 113 I ain’t a-goin’ to run no more resks on that feller. When my day for glory comes I’ll step out on the gallers and say m’ piece, and they’ll be some big fellers in this country huntin’ the tall grass about that time, I guess.”
Chadron had taken up his quirt from the little round table where the hotel register lay. He turned now toward the outer door, as if in earnest about going his way and leaving Mark Thorn to follow his own path, no matter to what consequences it might lead.