He moved off the veranda in a frantic state of nervous passion.
Bill sprang from his seat and was at his brother’s side in two great strides, and his big hand fell with no little force upon the latter’s arm and held it.
“What do you mean?” he cried apprehensively. “Where—where are you going?”
With surprising strength Charlie flung him off. He turned, facing him with angry eyes and flushed face.
“Don’t you dare lay hand on me like that again, Bill,” he cried dangerously. “I don’t stand for that from—anybody. I’m going down the village, since you want to know. I’m going down to O’Brien’s. And you can get it right now that I wouldn’t stand the devil himself butting in to stop me.”
CHAPTER XXIII
STORM CLOUDS
A dispirited creature made its way down to the Setons’ house that same evening. Big Brother Bill felt there was not one single clear thought in his troubled head, at least, not one worth thinking. He was weighted down by a hazy conception of the position of things, in a manner that came near to destroying the very root of his optimism.
One or two things settled upon his mind much in the manner of mental vampires. He knew that Charlie was threatened, and he knew that Charlie knew it, and made no attempt to protect himself. He knew that Charlie was also scared—frightened out of all control of himself in a manner that was absurdly contradictory. He knew that he was now at the saloon for the purpose of drowning his hopeless feelings in the maddening spirit O’Brien dispensed. He knew that his own baggage had at last arrived from Heaven only knew where, and he wished it hadn’t, for it left him feeling even more burdened than ever with the responsibilities of the pestilential valley. He knew that he was beginning to hate the police, and Fyles, almost as much as Charlie did. He knew that if prevailing conditions weren’t careful he would lose his temper with them, and make things hot for somebody or something. But, more than all else, he knew that Helen Seton was more than worth all the worry and anxiety he was enduring.