He paid no attention to tethering
his pony, but started towards the shack, down-headed, heavy of foot.
Hervey had gained the door of the shack in the interim, and there he
crouched at watch, terrified at the thought of staying till the other
entered, still more terrified at the idea of bolting across the open
clearing. He could see Perris clearly, in outline, for just behind him
there was a rift in the circle of trees which fenced the clearing and
Red Jim was thrown into somewhat bold relief against the blue-black
of the night sky far beyond. He could even make out that a bandage
circled the head of Perris and with that sight a new thought leaped
into the brain of the foreman. The bandage, the stumbling walk, the
downward head, were all signs of a badly injured and exhausted man.
Suppose he were to attack Perris, single-handed and destroy him? The
entire problem would be solved! The respect of his men, the deathless
gratitude of Jordan were in the grip of his hand.
His fingers locked around the butt of his gun and yet he hesitated to
draw. One could never be sure. How fast, how lightning fast his mind
plunged through thought after thought, image after flocking image,
while Red Jim made the last dragging steps towards the door of the
shack! If he drew, Perris, despite his bent head might catch the
glimmer of steel and draw and fire at the glance of the gun.
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