Only reason I’m back is because I’ve . . .
HAD MY FILL OF HATE
The memory Jesse had of his father was that of a belligerent man who strode through life, giving no quarter to anyone and expecting none in return. He had no friends and his family gave him no pleasure, nor did he want it.
That day, like those preceding it, was completely uneventful as far as Jesse was concerned, but he wanted it that way. Ten days in the saddle, steadily pushing westward, making night camps in the loneliness of the frontier, were exactly what he needed to prepare his mind and his body for the ordeal ahead.
He had sent word to his brother that he was on his way, so he knew Buck would be watching the horizon with eyes that seven years of waiting would have stripped of all signs of welcome. It would be a spiteful meeting but one Jesse could no longer avoid.
The day of reckoning was at hand . . .