His strength returned
quickly. He went to the pail of water and drank deeply with a consuming
thirst. The water refreshed him, and he paced back and forth more and
more swiftly, until he was breathing steadily and he could harden his
muscles and knot his fists. He looked at the knife. It was a horrible
necessity--the burying of that steel in a man's back, or his heart! Was
there no other way, he wondered? He began searching the room. Why hadn't
Marge brought him a club instead of a knife, or at least a club along
with the knife? To club a man down, even when he was intent on murder,
wasn't like letting out his life in a gush of blood.
His eyes rested on the table, and in a moment he had turned it over and
was wrenching at one of the wooden legs. It broke off with a sharp snap,
and he held in his hand a weapon possessing many advantages over the
knife. The latter he thrust into his belt with the handle just back of
his hip. Then he waited.
It was not for long. The western mountains had shut out the last
reflections of the sun. Gloom was beginning to fill his room, and he
numbered the minutes as he stood, with his ear close to the door,
listening for a step, hopeful that it would be the Girl's and not
Hauck's or Brokaw's.
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