He had one strange habit,
too, from which I got comfort. He
would deliberately walk into and defy
any temptation that beset him. That
was the way he strengthened himself,
he said. I knew what his temptation
was now, and I thought of this habit
when I found him asleep with his
revolver, and I got hope from it now,
when the dreaded combination (whatever
that was) seemed actually to have come.
I could see now that he got worse
daily. He stopped his mockeries, his
occasional fits of reckless gayety. He
stopped poker--resolutely--he couldn't
afford to lose now; and, what puzzled me,
he stopped drinking. The man simply
looked tired, always hopelessly tired;
and I could believe him sincere in all
his foolish talk about his blessed Nirvana:
which was the peace he craved,
which was end enough for him.
Winter broke. May drew near; and
one afternoon, when Grayson and I took
our walk up through the Gap, he carried
along a huge spy-glass of mine, which
had belonged to a famous old desperado,
who watched his enemies with it from the
mountain-tops.
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