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 Eight years had not effaced Rainbow from his mind; its terrors had not been dimmed, but rather increased to fabulous proportions; it remained distinct, clear in his recollection with a sort of savage glare. He could not think of Rainbow without the word “murderer” ringing in his ears; without a shrinking and cringing. Always he had known that, some day, he must come back to face it, to fight it—for Dave Wilkins. He knew his whole life was a preparation for that battle, that he was a soldier in training; that he was preparing for it as other boys prepare for a profession. Rainbow was his profession—to brave it, to battle with it, to slay with his life and his conduct and his achievements the old dragon of prison stigma; to erase the mark of Cain which had been stamped upon him. Dave had told him this; had talked of it often, pointing it out as a splendid thing to do…. But this had always been a matter for some moment in the dim future, and now, suddenly, without an hour to prepare his soul for the test, the thing was upon him…. And added to his dread of Rainbow was a terror, stark and numbing, lest Dave Wilkins whom he worshiped as a dog worships his master, might be taken from him by death….

He paused, hesitant, upon the planked platform of the depot, worn and splintered by the