Roger looked around the room in a dazed way, then back at Ernest. "You sold my invention--the work of my life--without my knowledge or permission? Ernest, it can't be true. Why, you're my best friend!"
"Certainly I am."
"And you sold it to a stranger. Sold me out. Why I'd as soon you sold a child of mine. Damn it, are you Germans born crooked?" He rose slowly. "You picked my brains and sold the contents. You sneaked on me! And I thought you were my friend! You've lied to me ever since you came home. Why did you lie----" his voice rising now uncontrollably. "Why did you lie, you skunk?"
Ernest's face turned purple. He leaned across the table and struck Roger in the mouth.
"No one can say that to me!" he shouted.
Roger rushed around the table and seized Ernest by the throat. "Now I'm going to kill you," he said between his teeth.
Dick, shouting for Gustav, fought to break Roger's hold. Gustav came rushing over the porch.
When Roger next was fully conscious of himself he was climbing from the desert up onto a broad mesa. The sun was sinking behind the mountains into which the mesa merged. When he reached the crest of the mesa, Roger paused, shaken and breathless. There was the scramble of little footsteps behind him and Roger turned to look. Peter, packless and breathing hard, was following him. Roger drew his shirt sleeves across his eyes. He knew that Gustav and Dick had pulled him away from Ernest. How much he had injured Ernest he did not know, nor, for the present, did he care. He recalled that, with Ernest motionless on the floor, the others had united in denouncing him, that Charley had turned on him with furious eyes. Then he had fled. Not toward Archer's Springs where he was known. But with a vague idea of crossing the Colorado into California, he had turned westward.
He was fleeing not from fear nor from cowardice. He was fleeing because with the discovery of Ernest's duplicity, the entire edifice of his life had tumbled into ruins. A great loathing of the desert, of the work he had attempted there, but most of all, a red hate for Ernest, carried him across the many burning miles of desert to the foothills of the River Range. A blind desire to get away from it all, to lose himself forever, to forget all that he had ever been or known, but above everything to get away from Ernest was for the time being the motive force of his existence.
He was carrying a bag of grub and his two gallon canteen which still was heavy with water. For a moment Roger considered some method of transferring his burden to the burro's little back. But Peter was so small, so winded, that he gave up the idea and trudged on to the west. Peter fell in after him and two scarcely discernible specks on the immense floor of the mesa they moved toward the black mountain top lifting before them. There was no sound save that of their own footsteps. There was no verdure here except the martial figures of the great cacti, those soldiers of the waste, that guard the eternal solitudes. There was no wind. Only a breathless sense of brooding in the remote wonder of the sky. The desert is a hard country; a country to try out the mettle of a man and leave it all dross or pure gold.