Too long had he waged an unequal conflict with his own thoughts, his aloneness; with regrets and soul hunger and idleness.

When he had spent his strength and most of his rage together, he let Hank go and felt tenderly his own bruised knuckles.
He never knew how close he was to death in the next five minutes, while Hank was saddling up to go.

For Hank's fingers went several times to his rifle and hovered there, itching to do murder, while Hank's mind revolved the consequences.

Murder would be madness--suicide, practically.

The boy would be missed when he did not answer the telephone.