All his set
speeches had been blown to the clouds by the blast of his passion. All
his plans exploded in flame at the sight of the man's face--the eyes
that had gloated over Mavis' reluctant body, the lips that had fed on
her enforced kisses. But what did the words matter? Any words were
sufficient. They could understand each other without words now.
He was holding the bridle firmly, pulling the horse's head round; and
he grasped Mr. Barradine's foot, got it out of the stirrup, and
jerking the whole leg upward, pitched him out of the saddle. The
horse, released, sprang away, jumping this way, that way, as it dashed
through the brake to the rocks--the clatter of its hoofs sounded on
the rocks, and the last glimpse of it showed its empty saddle and the
two flying stirrup-irons.
Dale was mad now--the devil loose in him--only conscious of
unappeasable rage and hatred, as he struck with his fists, beating the
man down every time he tried to get up, and kicking at the man's head
when he lay prostrate.
Then there came a brief pause of extraordinary deep quiet, a sudden
cessation of all perceptible sounds and movements. Dale was confused,
dazed, breathing hard. That was a dead man sprawling there--what you
call a corpse, a bleeding carcass.
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