He was not quite certain yet that Jim Asberry had murdered his father,
but he knew that Asberry was one of the coterie of "killers" who took
their blood hire from Purvy, and he knew that Asberry had sworn to
"git" him. To sit in the same car with these men and to force himself
to withhold his hand, was a hard bullet for Samson South to chew, but
he had bided his time thus far, and he would bide it to the end. When
that end came, it would also be the end for Purvy and Asberry. He
disliked Hollis, too, but with a less definite and intense hatred.
Samson wished that one of the henchmen would make a move toward attack.
He made no concealment of his own readiness. He removed both overcoat
and coat, leaving exposed to view the heavy revolver which was strapped
under his left arm. He even unbuttoned the leather flap of the holster,
and then being cleared for action, sat glowering across the aisle, with
his eyes not on the faces but upon the hands of the two Purvy spies.
The wrench of partings, the long raw ride and dis-spiriting gloom of
the darkness before dawn had taken out of the boy's mind all the
sparkle of anticipation and left only melancholy and hate. He felt for
the moment that, had these men attacked him and thrown him back into
the life he was leaving, back into the war without fault on his part,
he would be glad. The fierce activity of fighting would be welcome to
his mood. He longed for the appeasement of a thoroughly satisfied
vengeance. But the two watchers across the car were not ordered to
fight and so they made no move. They did not seem to see Samson. They
did not appear to have noticed his inviting readiness for combat. They
did not remove their coats. At Lexington, where he had several hours to
wait, Samson bought a "snack" at a restaurant near the station and then
strolled about the adjacent streets, still carrying his saddlebags, for
he knew nothing of the workings of check-rooms. When he returned to the
depot with his open wallet in his hand, and asked for a ticket to New
York, the agent looked up and his lips unguardedly broke into a smile
of amusement. It was a good-humored smile, but Samson saw that it was
inspired by some sort of joke, and he divined that the joke was--himself!
"What's the matter?" he inquired very quietly, though his chin
stiffened. "Don't ye sell tickets ter New York?"