Neale suffered only the weakness following the action and stress of
great passion. His mind seemed full of beautiful solemn bells of
blessing, resonant, ringing the wonder of an everlasting
unchangeable truth. Night fell--the darkness thickened--the old
trapper kept his vigil--and Neale sank to sleep, and the sweet, low-
toned bells claimed him in his dreams.
How strange for Neale to greet a dawn without hatred! He and
Slingerland had breakfast together.
"Son, will you go into the hills with me?" asked the old trapper.
"Yes, some day, when the railroad's built," replied Neale,
thoughtfully.
Slingerland's keen eyes quickened. "But the railroad's about done--
an' you need a vacation," he insisted.
"Yes," Neale answered, dreamily.
"Son, mebbe you ought to wait awhile. You're packin' a bullet
somewhar in your carcass."
"It's here," said Neale, putting his hand to his breast, high up
toward the shoulder. "I feel it--a dull, steady, weighty pain....
But that's nothing. I hope I always have it."
"Wal, I don't.... An', son, you ain't never goin' back to drink an'
cards-an' all thet hell? ... Not now!"
Neale's smile was a promise, and the light of it was instantly
reflected on the rugged face of the trapper.
"Reckon I needn't asked thet. Wal, I'll be sayin' good-bye.
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