Perhaps he was thinking of his return to
New York in disgrace, of his interview with Bishop, of his inevitable
meeting with a multitude of friends, who would read in the daily papers
the accounts of his incompetence--criminal incompetence, they would
call it. The shadows were beginning to lengthen across the slope of the
hill. Up the gulch cow bells tinkled, up the hill birds sang, and
through the little hollows twilight flowed like a vapour. The wild
roses on the hillside were blooming--late in this high altitude. The
pines were singing their endless song. But Bennington de Laney was
looking upon none of these softer beauties of the Hills. Rather he
watched intently the lower gulch with its flood-wracked, water-twisted
skeleton laid bare. Could it be that in the destruction there figured
forth he caught the symbol of his own condition? That the dreary gloom
of that ruin typified the chaos of sombre thoughts that occupied his
own remorseful mind? If so, the fancy must have absorbed him. The
moments slipped by one by one, the shadows grew longer, the bird songs
louder, and still the figure with the rifle sat motionless, his face
white and still, watching the lower gulch.
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