He figured on reaching the Lazy Y about dusk. He would see
his father, perhaps quarrel with him, and then he would ride away, to
return no more. Strange as it may seem, the prospect of a quarrel with
his father brought him a thrill of joy, the first emotion he had felt
since beginning his homeward journey.
When he reached the bottom of the valley he urged his pony on a little
way, pulling it to a halt on the flat, rock-strewn top of an isolated
excrescence of earth surrounded by a sea of sagebrush, dried bunch
grass, and sand. Dismounting he stretched his legs to disperse the
saddle weariness. He stifled a yawn, lazily plunged a hand into a
pocket of his trousers, produced tobacco and paper and rolled a
cigarette. Lighting it he puffed slowly and deeply at it, exhaling the
smoke lingeringly through his nostrils. Then he sat down on a rock,
leaned an elbow in the sand, pulled his hat brim well down over his
eyes and with the cigarette held loosely between his lips, gave himself
over to retrospection.
It all came to him, as he sat there on the rock, his gaze on the
basking valley, his thoughts centered on that youth which had been an
abiding nightmare. The question was: What influence had made him a
hardened, embittered, merciless demon of a man whose passions
threatened always to wash away the dam of his self-control? A man
whose evil nature caused other men to shun him; a man who scoffed at
virtue; who saw no good in anything?
Not once during his voluntary exile had he applied his mind to the
subject in the hope of stumbling on a solution.
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