"I didn't know
before what I know now. My flesh sickened at the thought of killing a
man, even to save my own life; and to kill--your son--"
"No son of mine!" thundered Naab. "Remember that when next you meet. I
don't want your blood on my hands. Don't stand to be killed like a
sheep! If you have felt duty to me, I release you."
Zeke finished bandaging the wound. Making a bed of blankets he lifted
Hare into it, and covered him, cautioning him to lie still. Hare had a
sensation of extreme lassitude, a deep drowsiness which permeated even to
his bones. There were intervals of oblivion, then a time when the stars
blinked in his eyes; he heard the wind, Silvermane's bell, the murmur of
voices, yet all seemed remote from him, intangible as things in a dream.
He rode home next day, drooping in the saddle and fainting at the end of
the trail, with the strong arm of August Naab upholding him. His wound
was dressed and he was put to bed, where he lay sleeping most of the
time, brooding the rest.
In three weeks he was in the saddle again, riding out over the red strip
of desert toward the range. During his convalescence he had learned that
he had come to the sombre line of choice.
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