“That’s not so,” quickly spoke up Dismukes, his voice deep and rolling. “Some one can help you—an’ maybe it’s me.”
Here Adam completely broke down. “I—I did—something—awful!”
“No crime, boy—say it was no crime,” earnestly returned the prospector.
“O my God! Yes—yes! It was—a crime!” sobbed Adam, shuddering. “But, man—I swear, horrible as it was—I’m innocent! I swear that. Believe me.... I was driven—driven by wrongs, by hate, by taunts. If I’d stood them longer I’d have been a white-livered coward. But I was driven and half drunk.”
“Well—well!” ejaculated Dismukes, shaking his shaggy head. “It’s bad. But I believe you an’ you needn’t tell me any more. Life is hell! I was young once.... An’ now you’ve got to hide away from men—to live on the desert—to be one of us wanderers of the wastelands?”
“Yes. I must hide. And I want—I need to live—to suffer—to atone!”
“Boy, do you believe in God?” asked the prospector.
“I don’t know. I think so,” replied Adam, lifting his head and striving for composure. “My mother was religious. But my father was not.”
“Well—well, if you believed in God your case would not be hopeless. But some men—a few out of the many wanderers—find God out here in these wilds. Maybe you will.... Can you tell me what you think you want to do?”
“Oh—to go alone—into the loneliest place—to live there for years—forever,” replied Adam, with passion.