He stood long beside the fence, considering the situation. It was odd
to the point of unreality, but, no matter how odd, it was a situation
that he must face, because he had already decided to stay and make an
attempt to get the money. He certainly would not go away and leave it
to Betty; he would not give her that satisfaction. Nor did he intend
to be pliable clay in her hands, to become in the end a creature of her
shaping. He would stay, but he would be himself, and he would make the
Claytons rue the day they had interfered in his affairs.
Leaning on the top rail of the fence, his gaze roved over the sweep of
valley, dull and cheerless in the early dawn, with a misty film rising
up out of it to meet and mingle and evaporate in the far-flung colors
of the slow-rising sun. Once his gaze concentrated on a spot in the
distance. He detected movement, and watched, motionless, until he was
certain. Half a mile it was to the spot--a low hill, crested with
yucca, sagebrush, and octilla--and he saw the desert weeds move,
observed a dark form slink out from them and stand for an instant on
the skyline. Wolf or coyote, it was too far for him to be certain, but
he watched it with a sneer until it slunk down into the tangle of sage,
out of his sight.
He presently forgot the slinking figure; his thoughts returned to
Betty.
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