Take a hand
and help me lift him into the wagon."
They hoisted him in and disposed him on a bed of buffalo robes spread on
sacks. He groaned once or twice, then settled on the softness of the
skins, gazing at them with blood-shot eyes of hate. When the doctor
offered him medicine, he struck the tin, sending its contents flying.
However serious his hurts were they had evidently not mitigated the
ferocity of his mood.
For the three succeeding days he remained in the wagon, stiff with
bruises and refusing to speak. Daddy John was detailed to take him his
meals, and the doctor dressed his wounds and tried to find the cause of
his murderous outburst. But Leff was obdurate. He would express no
regret for his action, and would give no reason for it. Once when the
questioner asked him if he hated David, he said "Yes." But to the
succeeding, "Why did he?" he offered no explanation, said he "didn't know
why."
"Hate never came without a reason," said the physician, curious and
puzzled. "Has David wronged you in any way?"
"What's that to you?" answered the farm boy. "I can hate him if I like,
can't I?"
"Not in my train.
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