"
Since one's consciousness may harbor several clear-cut impressions
simultaneously, Steve Packard, while he was thinking of other matters,
felt that never until this moment had he hated Blenham properly; no,
nor respected him as it would be the part of wisdom to do.
The man's glance running over Terry Temple's girlishness was like the
crawling of a slug over a wild flower and supplied a new and perhaps
the key-note to Blenham's ugliness. It was borne in upon Steve that
his grandfather's lieutenant was bad, absolutely bad; that, old adages
to the contrary notwithstanding, here was a character with not a hint
of redemption in it; after the Packard outright way, this youngest
Packard was ready to condemn out of hand.
And further, to all of this Steve marked how Blenham had drawn a quick
rein but had shown no tremor of uneasiness; had considered that though
the man had been taken completely by surprise he had given no sign of
being startled, but had answered a sharp summons with a cool, quiet
voice. So, summing it up, here was one to be hated and watched.
"What are you doing on my land, Blenham?" asked Steve sharply. "And
where are you driving those steers?"
Blenham eased himself in his saddle, drew his broad hat lower over his
eyes; thus he partly hid the patch which he had worn since he came from
the doctor's hands.
"I ain't on your land any more," he returned.
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