For some moments Wild Bill stood raging impotently. Then he turned on his companions, with a perfect devil glaring out of his ferocious eyes.
“God’s curse light on ’em!” he roared. “It’s James’ gang. May his soul rot. I’ll get ’em! I’ll get ’em! They’re after those kids. But, by the wall-eyed Mackinaw, they shan’t touch a hair o’ their heads as long as I’m a livin’ man. It’s war, boys! D’ye hear? It’s him an’ me. Me––an’ James! An’ I swar to God he’ll go down an’ out as sure as my name’s Wild Bill!”
CHAPTER XXV
WILD BILL FIRES A BOMB
When Wild Bill returned to his hut later on in the afternoon he was consumed by a cold, hard rage, such as comes but rarely in the life of any man. There was no demonstrativeness: he had no words to give it expression. It was the rage of a man who coldly, calmly collects every faculty of brain and body into one great concentration for harm to its object. It was a moment when every evil thought and feeling was drawn into a cruel longing for harm––harm calculated to be of the most merciless description.
Neither of the companions who had joined him in the pursuit of the man they had discovered lurking down at the river had any real understanding of what lay in the back of the gambler’s mind. His outburst there had been the first volcanic rage which had lit the fires of hate now burning so deep down in his intolerant heart. That outburst they had understood. That was the man as they knew him. But this other man they knew nothing of. This was the real man who returned to his hut, silent and ghastly, with implacable hatred burning in his heart.
All three had hurriedly and silently returned to the store from their futile chase. Bill offered no explanation, and his manner was so forbidding that even the intrepid Sandy had found no use for the questions he would so gladly have put.
When they arrived, Scipio and Sunny, with the twins, had reached the place just before them. But they were lost sight of in the rush that was made to tell the gambler of the happenings at Sid Morton’s ranch. Nor had he any choice but to listen to the luridly narrated facts. However, his choice did fall in with their desires, and, after the first brief outline, told with all the imagination this varied collection of beings was capable of, he found himself demanding, as eagerly as they were waiting to tell, every detail of the matter, and even went so far as to examine the body of the dead rancher, roughly laid out in the barn on a bed of hay. He listened almost without comment, which was unusual in him. His manner displayed no heat. He was cold, critical, and his only words were to ask sharp and definitely pointed questions. Then, having given Minky instructions for the safeguarding of the children, he departed without even mentioning his own adventure down at the river.