His feeble protests to Curly were swept away. He felt the
blood rush to his temples. And anger that had so far been submerged by
pain and shame suddenly claimed its hour. His rage was not only at
Brown. Luigi, his mother, most of all this woman who had been his
mother, claimed his fury. The bitterness and humiliation of a lifetime
burst through the gates of his self-control. He stole from the cave to
the sandy shore and there he strode up and down like a madman. He was
physically exhausted long before the tempest subsided. But gradually
he regained his self-control and slipped back into his blankets.
There, with the thought of vengeance sweet on his lips, he fell asleep.
Curly was, of course, entirely engrossed the next day by his mining
operations. Enoch had not expected or wished him to be otherwise. He
felt that he needed the day alone to get a grip on himself.
That afternoon he climbed up the plateau to the entering trail, up the
trail to the desert. He was full of energy. He was conscious of a
purposefulness and a keen interest in life to which he had long been a
stranger. As he filled the gunny sack which he carried for a game bag
with quail and rabbits, he occasionally laughed aloud. He was thinking
of the expression that would appear on Curly's face if he learned into
whose hands he was putting his dynamite?
The sun was setting when he reached the head of the trail on his way
campward.
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