“Graham,” he said brokenly, “may the good God forgive you, for I never shall.”
He threw out his thin arms and looked at them, while tears of impotence came into his eyes. He clenched his hands and grit his teeth. “And may the devil, your friend, protect you,” he continued threateningly, “when these grow strong again.”
Brenchfield looked him over with indifference.
“My good fellow, you’ll excuse me! You have wheels in your head. I don’t know you from a hedge-fence. Damn it!” he suddenly flared angrily, “I don’t want to know you. Get out; quick! before I help you along, or put you in the hands of your friends down the hill who are so anxious to renew your acquaintance.”
The young man stared fearlessly into the eyes of Graham Brenchfield, wealthy rancher, cattleman, grain merchant and worthy Mayor of Vernock. Then his lips parted in a strange smile, as he threw up his head.
He turned to Eileen.
“Guess I’ve got to go now. I have my marching orders.”
“Come on;––enough of this––git!” put in Brenchfield roughly, stepping up in a threatening manner.
The fugitive ignored the interruption.