Another buzzard! With a terrible jerk, Ronador drove on, his face
scarlet.
So Poynter still dared to follow! By a trick he had bought the
music-machine, by a trick he had given the Regent's Hymn to the curious
ears at Sherrill's. Very well, there were tricks and tricks! And if
one man may trick, so, surely, may another.
Passion had always hushed the voice of the imperial conscience, though
indeed it awoke and cried in a terrible voice when passion was dead.
So now with stiff white lips fixed in unalterable resolution, Ronador
drove viciously on, turning over and over in his fevered brain the ways
and days of Philip Poynter. . . . So at last he came to the camp he
sought.
It was pitched upon the upland bank of the winding creek and as the car
shot rapidly toward it, a great blue heron flapped indignantly and
soared away to the marsh beyond the trees. Ronador jumped queerly and
colored with a sense of guilt.
There was yellow oxalis here carpeting the ground among the low, dark
cedars, yellow butterflies flitted about among the trees where Johnny
was washing the van, and the inevitable buzzard floated with upturned
wings above the camp. Ronador had grown to hate the ubiquitous bird of
the South. Superstition flamed hotly up in his heart now at the sight
of it.
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