“Why can't you allow it, Dannie?” And his son recognized the same cheerful tone with which he had always met and overruled his objections.
“It will end in your arrest, and we don't want that.”
“It's more than likely I'll be arrested sooner or later, anyhow,” he said, with a suggestion of weariness, as if this were a matter it was a waste of time to consider. “The Lord has set His face against me. It's His wish I should return. I've been stubborn and headstrong and wouldn't see it, but look there,” and he nodded towards the red western sky. “It's a summons. I got to obey, whether I want to or not.”
“It won't be safe. No telling what they will do with you.”
“That ain't the question, Dannie; that ain't at all the question. It's not what they'll do to me,” and he softly patted the hand that rested on his arm.
Dan saw that his clothes hung loosely to his mighty frame. They were torn and stained. He had the appearance of a man who had endured hardship, privation, and toil. His glance was fugitive and anxious. “Where have you been all this while?” he asked. “Not here?”
“No, I have been living in the woods, trying to escape from the country, and the fires wouldn't let me. Wherever I went, they were there ahead of me, driving me back.”
“Why did you kill him? How did it happen?” Dan added. “Or is it all a mistake? Did you do it?”
The smile faded from the old convict's lips.
“It was a sort of accident, and it was sort of carelessness, Dannie,” he explained, with a touch of sullenness. “I hit him—not hard, mind you. I know I shouldn't have done it, but he was in the wrong, and he wouldn't listen to reason. I don't know when I ever seen a man so set in his wickedness.”