“Reddy, I wish the bullet that hit Shane to-day had hit me instead.... You needn’t look like that. I mean it. To-day when the Sioux chased us my hair went stiff and my heart was in my mouth. I ran for my life as if I loved it. But that was my miserable cowardice.... I’m sick of the game.”
“Are you in daid earnest?” asked Larry, huskily.
Neale nodded gloomily. He did not even regret the effect of his speech upon the cowboy. He divined that somehow the moment was as critical and fateful for Larry, but he did not care. The black spell was enfolding him. All seemed hard, cold, monstrous within his breast. He could not love anything. He was lost. He realized the magnificent loyalty of this simple Texan, who was his true friend.
“Reddy, for God’s sake don’t make me ashamed to look you in the eyes,” appealed Neale. “I want to go on. You know!”
“Wal, I reckon there ain’t anythin’ to hold me now,” drawled Larry. He had changed as he spoke. He had aged. The dry humor of the cowboy, the amiable ease, were wanting.
“Oh, forgive my utter selfishness!” burst out Neale. “I’m not the man I was. But don’t think I don’t love you.”
They went out together, and the hum of riotous Benton called them; the lights beckoned and the melancholy night engulfed them.
Next morning late, on the way to breakfast, Neale encountered a young man whose rough, bronzed face somehow seemed familiar.
At sight of Neale this young fellow brightened and he lunged forward.
“Neale! Lookin’ for you was like huntin’ for a needle in a haystack.”