He had grown up with the evil.

To him it must have been a necessary one, the same as dry seasons and cyclones.
"Russ, I'll look you up the next time I come to town," he said soberly.
We parted, and I, more than content with the meeting, retraced my steps down street to the Hope So saloon.
Here I entered, bent on tasks as sincere as the ones just finished, but displeasing, because I had to mix with a low, profane set, to cultivate them, to drink occasionally despite my deftness at emptying glasses on the floor, to gamble with them and strangers, always playing the part of a flush and flashy cowboy, half drunk, ready to laugh or fight.
On the night of the fifth day after Steele's departure, I went, as was my habit, to the rendezvous we maintained at the pile of rocks out in the open.
The night was clear, bright starlight, without any moon, and for this latter fact safer to be abroad.

Often from my covert I had seen dark figures skulking in and out of Linrock.
It would have been interesting to hold up these mysterious travelers; so far, however, this had not been our game.

I had enough to keep my own tracks hidden, and my own comings and goings.
I liked to be out in the night, with the darkness close down to the earth, and the feeling of a limitless open all around.

Not only did I listen for Steele's soft step, but for any sound--the yelp of coyote or mourn of wolf, the creak of wind in the dead brush, the distant clatter of hoofs, a woman's singing voice faint from the town.
This time, just when I was about to give up for that evening, Steele came looming like a black giant long before I heard his soft step.