As full recollection came to him, his whole body burned with uncontrollable rage against Snaky Pete and the men who constituted his band of road-agent outlaws.
Clayton glanced round, looked at the sky, and then at the nearly extinct fire.
“They’ve been gone some time,” he said. “And have left me out here, thinking maybe the wolves would get me.”
Then he swore violently, raging against Snaky Pete, whom he loaded with opprobrious names and noisy abuse. By and by he became saner and cooler, though his new hatred of Snaky Pete did not abate.
He lighted a torch of grass at the fire, and looked for the trail of the outlaws, finding it soon.
“Gone on,” he said; “and they’ll camp about morning at the Poplar Bluffs.”
He knew the place, and was sure he could find the outlaws in camp there; but he did not know whether to follow them or not.
In his searching he expected to come upon the body of the old trapper, being fully persuaded that Snaky Pete meant his death.
“They’ll shoot him, and leave him by the trail for the wolves to eat,” he said. “Maybe that’s what the wolves are howling over now.” He shuddered, as when Snaky Pete commanded him to shoot the old man. “I couldn’t do that!” was his thought. “I couldn’t do it!”
He stirred the fire into new life, for its light drove away a certain lonely feeling that troubled him. And he began to think of what he should now do.