“May your soul rot!” he cried venomously. And with this final impotent explosion he slouched out of the hut.
“Dessay it will,” Bill called after him amiably. “But it ain’t started yet.”
But his jibe was quite lost on the angry Sunny, for he had left him with the haste of a man driven to fear of whither his anger might carry him.
Left alone, Wild Bill chuckled. He liked Sunny, but despised his mode of life with all the arrogant superiority of a man of great force, even if of indifferent morals. He had no patience with a weakened manhood. With him it was only strength that counted. Morality was only for those who had not the courage to face a mysterious future unflinchingly. The future concerned him not at all. He had no fears of anybody or anything, either human or superhuman. Death offered him no more terrors than Life. And whichever was his portion he was ready to accept it unquestioningly, unprotestingly.
He allowed the hoboe time to get well clear of his shack. Then he stood up and began to pace the room thoughtfully. A desperate frown depressed his brows until they met over the bridge of his large thin nose. Something was working swiftly, even passionately, in his brain, and it was evident that his thoughts were more than unpleasant to himself. As the moments passed his strides became more aggressive, and his movements were accompanied by gesticulations of a threatening nature with his clenched fists.
At last he paused in his walk, and dropped again into his chair. Here he sat for a long while. Then, of a sudden, he lifted his head and glanced swiftly about his bare room. Finally he sprang to his feet and crushed his slouch hat on his head, and, crossing over to the oil-lamp on the table, blew it out. Then he passed out into the night, slamming and locking the door behind him.
The night was dark, and the moon would not rise for at least another hour. The air was still laden with the heat of the long summer’s day, and it hummed with the music of stirring insect life. He strode along the trail past the store. He glanced at the lighted windows longingly, for he had an appointment for a game in there that night. But he passed on.
As he came to the camp dumps he paused for a moment to take his bearings. Then he continued his way with long, decided strides, and in a few minutes the dim outline of Scipio’s house loomed up before him. He came close up, and walked slowly round it. At one window he paused, listening. There was not a sound to be heard outside. At the window of the bedroom he listened a long time. No, he could not even hear the children breathing.
At last he reached the door which Sunny had locked. He cautiously tried the handle, and the sound brought a whimper from the yellow pup within. He cursed the animal softly under his breath and waited, hoping the wretched creature would settle down again. He heard it snuff at the foot of the door, and then the soft patter of its feet died away, and he knew that the poor thing had satisfied itself that all was well.
He smiled, and sat down at the foot of the door. And, with his knees drawn up into his arms, he prepared for his long vigil. It was the posting of the night sentry over Scipio’s twins.