He had felt
his blood surge hotly at the prospect of a fight, with Mary Bransford
as the storm center; a passion to defend her had got into his soul; and
a hatred for Alva Dale had gripped him.
Whatever the motive, he had come, and since he had looked down into
William Bransford's face, he had become conscious of a mighty
satisfaction. The two men who had trailed Bransford had been
cold-blooded murderers, and he had avenged Bransford completely. That
could not have happened if he had not yielded to the impulse to go to
the Double A.
He was glad he had decided to go. He was now the bearer of ill news,
but he was convinced that the girl would want to know about her
brother--and he must tell her. And now, too, he was convinced that his
journey to the Double A had been previously arranged--by Fate, or
whatever Providence controls the destinies of humans.
And that conviction helped him to fight down the sense of guilty
embarrassment that had afflicted him until now--the knowledge that he
was deliberately and unwarrantedly going to the Double A to interfere,
to throw himself into a fight with persons with whom he had no previous
acquaintance, for no other reason than that his chivalrous instincts
had prompted him.
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