He might not have been far wrong at that. Whenever it pounced upon him he was like one possessed. It bred murder in his heart--the lust to kill. A dozen times his eyes had burned with evil satisfaction at the picture of Allston in his death agonies. He had heard the bark of his own pistol and seen the man crumple up, falling to this side and that, his eyes rolling, his face writhing with pain. Leeringly he had looked on, watching to the last gasp. Only one thing had stayed his hand as long as this. He wanted Allston to die, but he himself wanted to live. Never before had he considered himself when in such a mood. He had always moved recklessly. This new element made him move cautiously. To die would be to lose Roxie in another way. To have her, he must live. He needed years to satisfy himself with her. He might need years to satisfy her with him. Life--the ability to see, hear, and feel her--he must retain. He must not jeopardize a second of it. When he shot, it must be from ambush with no traces left. He must await his opportunity--perhaps contrive it. The opportunity came sooner than he expected and with no contriving. It came one afternoon when in descending the mountain road, his keen nostrils caught a new scent in the still air. It was tobacco smoke, but not of his kind. It was neither plug nor Bull Durham, but something more pungent. He had caught the same spicy aroma once or twice when the summerers were loafing around the post-office waiting for the mail--the men in white flannels and immaculate shirts. It was the kind that only pink-cheeked strangers smoked. Bud stiffened like a pointing bird dog. He stood so, listening, for almost a full minute. He regulated even his breathing. Then slowly he moved his hand back to his big-calibred revolver until his fingers gripped the handle. The feel of it calmed his twitching muscles. A light breeze coming out of the woods on his left, where a branch of the stream which ran by his shack had its source, gave him his direction. He knew every foot of those woods as he did for miles around his place. He knew even the little cove where a man would be likely to stop to rest. Carefully Bud moved one foot, looking to see where to rest it, lest a crackling twig give warning. So step by step he made his way among the trees--taking a half-hour to go a few hundred yards. But when, through the branches, he made out clearly the form of Allston sitting on the ground, he felt the time well spent--even though, to his surprise, he discovered that the man was not alone. He saw red for a second as he caught sight of a woman’s skirt. Then, as he discerned who the other was, he steadied. There was only one woman in the world who had the power to stay his fingers on the trigger. And that one was not Wilmer Howe. CHAPTER IX