Nyland got up, his face chalk white. Standing beside the man he
removed the two spent cartridges from the cylinder of his pistol and
replaced them with two loaded ones. Then he ran to his horse, tore the
reins from the rail of the corral fence, mounted with the horse in a
dead run, and raced toward Okar.
CHAPTER XXIX
NYLAND'S VENGEANCE
Just before the dusk enveloped Okar, Banker Maison closed the desk in
his private office and lit a cigar. He leaned back in the big desk
chair, slowly smoking, a complacent smile on his lips, his eyes glowing
with satisfaction.
For Maison's capacity for pleasure was entirely physical. He got more
enjoyment out of a good dinner and a fragrant cigar than many
intellectual men get out of the study of a literary masterpiece, or a
philanthropist out of the contemplation of a charitable deed.
Maison did not delve into the soul of things. The effect of his greed
on others he did not consider. That was selfishness, of course, but it
was a satisfying selfishness.
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