But the Parson did not pass on. He came close up to the boy as he stood there alone in the dusk, half trembling with fear, as the Parson approached.
The strong man did not speak at first. His face was terrible with rage and a strange tumult of thought.
The stars were half hidden by the sailing clouds, and the moon had not risen. It was almost dark. Away up on the mountain side a wolf called to his companion, and a lonesome night-bird, with a sharp cracked voice, kept up a mournful monotone in the cañon below.
The boy began to tremble, as the man towered up above him, and looked down into his uplifted face.
"By God, youngster," muttered the man between his teeth. The boy sank on his knees, as he saw the Parson look up and down the trail, as if to make sure that no one was in sight.
Then he reached his great hand and clutched him sharp by the shoulder:
"Come here! come! come with me!"
The broad hand tightened like a vice on the shoulder. The boy tried to rise, but trembled and half fell to the ground. The infuriated, half monster man, held tight to his shoulder, and led toward the precipice.
The boy, half lifted, half led, half dragged, found himself powerless in the hands of the Parson, and was soon on the brink of the cañon.
"Now sir, damn you, what have you been doing at the Widow's?"