And only a brief hour ago he had been yearning to fight, with his back to the wall, against the suspicion and feeling against him in the village. He smiled with a shadow of bitterness and shook his head. Useless––quite useless. The one-way trail was well marked for him, and he had traveled it as best he knew how. As Peter said, there were no side paths. Just a narrow road, and the obstructions and perils on the way were set there for 344 each to face. Well, he would face this last one with a “stiff upper-lip.”
One thing he was irrevocably determined upon, never by word or action would he add to Eve’s unhappiness. And, if the cruel fate that had always dogged him demanded this final sacrifice, he would at least have the trifling satisfaction of knowing, as he went out of the world, that her future had been rendered the smoother by the blow that had removed Will from his sphere of crime.
He walked briskly back to his horse and leaped upon its back. Then, turning its head, he sat for a moment thinking. There was still a way out. Still a means of escape without Eve’s learning the truth. But it was a coward’s way, it was the way of the guilty. It was quite simple, too. He only had to go back and withdraw the knife from the man’s body, and gather up the two handkerchiefs, and––ride away. It sounded easy; it was easy. A new country. A fresh people who did not know him. Another start in life. There was hope in the thought. Yes, a little, but not much. The accusing finger would follow him pointing, the shadow of the rope would haunt him wherever he went in spite of his innocence.
“Psha! No!” he exclaimed, and rode away toward the village.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE DISCOMFITURE OF SMALLBONES
Never in all his recollection had Silas Rocket had such a profitable night. From sundown on, his saloon was packed almost to suffocation, and he scarcely had time to wipe a single glass between drinks, so rapidly were the orders shouted across his bar. All the male portion of Barnriff were present, with the addition of nearly thirty men from the outlying ranges. It was a sort of mass meeting summoned by Doc Crombie, who had finally, but reluctantly, been driven to yield to the public cry against Jim Thorpe.
The doctor understood his people, and knew just how far his authority would carry him. He had exerted that authority to the breaking point to protect a man, whom, in his heart, he believed to be innocent of the charges laid at his door. But now the popular voice was too strong for him, and he yielded with an ill-grace.