But that overdeveloped, superhuman spirit of defense in him precluded suicide or the inviting of an enemy's bullet.

Sometimes he had a vague, scarcely analyzed idea that this spirit was what had made the Southwest habitable for the white man.
Every one of his victims, singly and collectively, returned to him for ever, it seemed, in cold, passionless, accusing domination of these haunted hours.

They did not accuse him of dishonor or cowardice or brutality or murder; they only accused him of Death.

It was as if they knew more than when they were alive, had learned that life was a divine mysterious gift not to be taken.

They thronged about him with their voiceless clamoring, drifted around him with their fading eyes..