When he at last raised his head and looked across the fire, his black
eyes were such wells of misery as made the other catch his breath.
Upon the silence fell his big, serious voice, as solemn and sonorous as a
church-bell: "You ast me did I ever love an' trust a woman like that. I
did--an' she failed me. I ain't gwine to call you fool fer sich; you're a
town feller, Dan, with smart town ways; mebby your gal would stick to you,
even ef you was in trouble; but me--"
Kerry made an inarticulate murmur of sympathy.
The voice went on. "You say you're goin' home to her with jest your two
bare hands?" it inquired. "But why fer? You've found your man. What makes
you go back that-a-way?"
Kerry's mouth was open, his jaw fallen; he stared through the smoke at his
host as though he saw him now for the first time. Kerry belongs to a people
who love or hate obviously and openly; that the outlaw should have known
him from the first for a police officer, a creature of prey upon his track,
and should have treated him as a friend, as a brother, appalled and
repelled him.
"See here, Dan," the big man went on, leaning forward; "I knowed what your
arrant was the fust minute I clapped eyes on you.
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