Venters had come for that and for more--he wanted to meet Tull face to face; if not Tull, then Dyer; if not Dyer, then anyone in the secret of these master conspirators.

Such was Venters's passion.
The meeting with the rustlers, the unprovoked attack upon him, the spilling of blood, the recognition of Jerry Card and the horses, the race, and that last plunge of mad Wrangle--all these things, fuel on fuel to the smoldering fire, had kindled and swelled and leaped into living flame.

He could have shot Dyer in the midst of his religious services at the altar; he could have killed Tull in front of wives and babes.
He walked the three racers down the broad, green-bordered village road.
He heard the murmur of running water from Amber Spring.

Bitter waters for Jane Withersteen! Men and women stopped to gaze at him and the horses.

All knew him; all knew the blacks and the bay.