As he lay there in quiet misery, with renewed strength the utter hopelessness of his life came to him. It was not so much the thought of the present that crushed, but the knowledge that for years a life like this was all that lay before him. The ride of three odd months ago with Jean Cameron had awakened him to visions of things that lay beyond him.
He shivered with cold, and pulled the dirty red blanket up over him. Uncalled for, the thought of the saloon up on the hill came into his mind. He imagined himself leaning against a bar, the edge fitting comfortably into his side, drinking warm drinks, and feeling that life was worth while. He tried to drive the thought away. It was useless.
Jean Cameron for months now had been his idol, had seemed to him to represent his better self. With an effort he brought her face before him. The vision was all blurred. Her eyes seemed to look away from him. She seemed intangible, unreal, compared with the comfort which he knew that drink would bring.
“What is the use, anyhow?” he murmured to himself.
He turned irresolutely upon his cot, then he jumped up and out onto the floor.
“Oh, damn it, I will!” he exclaimed.
He jammed his hat down over his eyes, struggled into his drenched “slicker,” and started out into the muddy road. As he waded down to the corral, his boots squashed in sodden resentment.
Loring for a moment wavered irresolute while he was saddling his pony.
“I won’t,” he muttered.
But even as he said it, he gave the last turn to the cinch knot, and swung into the saddle.