When they were in sight of the ranch, he spoke again,
"How 'n th' name of God can a man help lovin' a woman like that?"
And in answer to the assertion that popped up in his mind, he cried aloud: "He ain't no man; _he_ ain't ... an' she loves him!"
He put the stallion into a high lope then, partly to relieve the stress of his thinking, partly because he suddenly realized that he had been away from the ranch many hours. This was the first time that Lytton had been up and about when he departed and he wondered if, in the interval, the man had left the ranch, had stolen a march on him, and escaped to Yavapai or elsewhere to find stimulant.
Lytton's improvement seemed to have been marked in the last two days. That forenoon, when Bayard told him he was to go to town, the man had insisted on helping with the work, though his body was still weak. He had been pleasant, almost jovial, and it was with pride that the rancher had told Ann of the results he had obtained by his care and his patience; had spoken with satisfaction in spite of the knowledge that ultimate success meant a snuffing out of the fire that burned in his heart ... the fire that he would not yet admit existed.
Arrived at the ranch, Bruce forced the sorrel against his gate, leaned low to release the fastening and went on through. He was grave of face and silent and he walked toward the house after dismounting, deep in thought, struggling with the problem of conduct which was evolving from the circumstance in which he found himself.
On the threshold, after looking into the kitchen, he stood poised a moment. Then, with a cry of anger he strode into the room, halted and looked about him.
"You damned liar!" he cried into the silence.
Ned Lytton lay across the bed, face downward, breathing muffled by the tumbled blankets, and on the floor beside him was an empty whiskey bottle.
"You liar!" Bayard said again. "You strung me this mornin', didn't you? This was why you was so crazy to help me get an early start! You coyote!"
He moved noisily across the room and halted again to survey the scene. A cupboard had been roughly emptied and the clock had been overturned when Lytton searched its shelf; in another room an old dresser stood gaping, the things it had contained in a pile on the floor, its drawers flung in a corner. Everywhere was evidence of a hurried search for a hidden thing. And that sought object was the bottle, the contents of which had sent the prostrate figure into its present state.