MacGonigal clutched him more tightly. "Ah, say, Derry," he cried thickly, "hev' you forgot you've left me yer mother's address in San Francisco? In case of accidents, you said. Well, am I ter write an' tell her you killed a man on his weddin' day, and was hanged for it?"
"For the Lord's sake, don't hold me, Mac!"
The storekeeper, with a wisdom born of much experience, took his hand off Power's arm at once, but contrived to edge forward until he was almost facing his distraught friend.
"Now, look-a here!" he said slowly. "This air a mighty bad business; but you cahn't mend it, an' ef you go cavortin' round in a red-eyed temper you'll sure make it wuss. You've lost the gal--never mind how--an' gittin' a strangle hold on Marten won't bring her back. Yer mother's a heap more to you ner that gal--now."
One wonders what hidden treasury of insight into the deeps of human nature MacGonigal was drawing on by thus bringing before the mind's eye of an unhappy son the mother he loved. But there was no gainsaying the soundness and efficiency of his judgment. Only half comprehending his friendly counselor's purpose, Power quivered like a high-spirited horse under the prick of a spur. He put his hands to his face, as if the gesture would close out forever the horrific vision which the memory of that gray-haired woman in San Francisco was beginning to dispel. For the first time in his young life he had felt the lust of slaying, and the instinct of the jungle thrilled through every nerve, till his nails clenched and his teeth bit in a spasm of sheer delirium.
MacGonigal, despite his present load of flesh, must have passed through the fiery furnace himself in other days; for he recognized the varying phases of the obsession against which Power was fighting.
Hence, he knew when to remain silent, and, again, he knew when to exorcise the demon, once and for all, by the spoken word. It was so still there on that sun-scorched plateau that the mellow whistle of an engine came full-throated from the distant railroad. The lame horse, bothered by the tight bandage which Power had contrived out of a girth, pawed uneasily in his stall. From the reduction works, half a mile away, came the grinding clatter of a mill chewing ore in its steel jaws. These familiar sounds served only to emphasize the brooding solitude of the place. Some imp of mischief seemed to whisper that every man who could be spared from his work, and every woman and child able to walk, was away making merry at the wedding of Hugh Marten and Nancy Willard.