“I had a son––once. I held him in my arms––for an hour––and then left him forever. You have a face that reminds me of one––one I hated––and it minds me of one I––I––loved,––of one I loved better than I loved life.”
Then Harry King turned and gazed in the big man’s eyes, and as he gazed, the withdrawn, inward look left his own. He still sat clasping his knees. “I can more easily tell you what I have done than I can tell you my name. I have sworn never to utter it again.” He was weeping, but he hid his tears for very shame of them.
The older man shook his head. “I’ve known sorrow, boy, but the lesson of it, never. Men say there is a thing to be learned from sorrow, but to me it has brought only rebellion and bitterness. So I’ve missed the good of it because it came upon me through arrogance and injustice––not my own. So now I say to you––if it was at the expense of your soul I saved your life, it were better I had let you go down. Lad,––you’ve brought me a softness,––it’s like what a man feels for a woman. I’m glad it’s come back to me. It is good to feel. I’d make a son of you,––but––for the truth’s sake tell me a bit more.”
“I had a friend and I killed him. I was angry and killed him. I have left my name in his grave.” Harry King rose and walked away and stood shivering in the entrance of the shed. Then he came back and spoke humbly. “Do with me what you will, but call me Harry King. I have nothing on earth but the clothes on my body, and they are in rags. If you have work for me to do, let me do it, 202 in mercy. If not, let me go back to the plains and die there.”
“How long ago was this?”
“More––more than two years ago––yes, three––perhaps.”
“And where have you been?”
“Knocking about––hiding. For a while I had work on the road they are building––”
“Road? What road?”
“The new railroad across the continent.”