The contemplation of these priceless friends of his early days never failed to lull him into a quiet, assured confidence and content. When trouble beset they were his whole resource. And just now trouble was looming heavily.
It was the dawn of the day of the farmers’ ball in Hartspool. So he saw to it that his guns were ready. Their carefully filed hair-triggers needed little more than a breath of wind to release, the beautifully adjusted ivory sights were without blemish, and the seven chambers contained not one single speck of rust.
With these things so, ease relaxed the tension of his troubled thought. He hated the day that was dawning. He hated the folk who had designed the farmers’ ball. But more than all he hated, with all his untamed soul, the man who had stolen Molly’s peace of mind and transformed her into a woman.
“Two-gun” Rogers snapped his second gun to. He opened it again. And again he closed it. Then, with a deep, satisfied breath, he stooped over and replaced it in its holster. Then he folded the grease-stained cloth and thrust it into his hip pocket, and, stooping again, picked up his belt. He stood up from his box, tall, and lean, and vigorous. And the process of adjusting the belt about his waist preoccupied him.
A moment later he turned and stared out at the golden prospect of the sunrise. The sun had cut the horizon and its fiery rays rent the heavens with slashes of furious fire. It was almost intolerable to gaze upon. Yet the man stood before it with the unflinching gaze of an old eagle.
He kicked the box he had been sitting on back within his doorway. And, with a hunch of his shoulders, he moved on quickly in the direction of the house. The cook-stove was waiting his attention. In all his years Molly had never been permitted to light it.
The cook-stove remained unlit. Lightning had not yet passed into the house. He was standing just outside the door, and his eyes were gazing down upon something which seemed to bar his way. It was two securely lashed sacks bulging with their contents, and the old man’s gaze was speculative as he studied their contours, their lashings, and the loose attached labels which gave them the appearance of having been delivered by mail.
After a profound study, which could not possibly have yielded enlightenment, Lightning resorted to the next most obvious procedure. He bent down and examined the labels. There was one to each sack. They were addressed in a clear, bold handwriting to “Molly” at “Marton’s Farm.” But they gave no indication whence they came and the old man was left to his own resources.
For awhile these looked to be distinctly barren. Then, slowly, a change of expression heralded inspiration. After a few more moments he gingerly stepped over the mysterious bundles and passed into the house.