“You ain’t done too bad,” he said judicially. “That m’lasses racket was a heap smart. Though–say, you’ll get around ther’ come sun-up to-morrer, an’ you’ll fix ’em right all day. Maybe Zip’ll be back later. Anyways, you’ll fix ’em.”

“Not on your life–” began Sunny, in fierce rebellion. But Bill cut him short.

“You’ll do it, Sunny,” he cried, “an’ don’t you make no mistake.”

The man’s manner was irresistibly threatening, and Sunny was beaten back into moody silence. But if looks could have killed, Bill’s chances of life were small indeed.

“Guess you’re off duty now,” the gambler went on icily. “You’re off duty till–sun-up. You’re free to get drunk, or–what in hell you like.”

Sunny rose from his seat. His rebellious eyes were fiercely alight as he regarded his master.

“May your soul rot!” he cried venomously. And with this final impotent explosion he slouched out of the hut.

“Dessay it will,” Bill called after him amiably. “But it ain’t started yet.”

But his jibe was quite lost on the angry Sunny, for he had left him with the haste of a man driven to fear of whither his anger might carry him.

Left alone, Wild Bill chuckled. He liked Sunny, but despised his mode of life with all the arrogant superiority of a man of great force, even if of indifferent morals. He had no patience with a weakened manhood. With him it was only strength that counted. Morality was only for those who had not the courage to face a mysterious future unflinchingly. The future concerned him not at all. He had no fears of anybody or anything, either human or superhuman. Death offered him no more terrors than Life. And whichever was his portion he was ready to accept it unquestioningly, unprotestingly.

He allowed the hoboe time to get well clear of his shack. Then he stood up and began to pace the room thoughtfully. A desperate frown depressed his brows until they met over the bridge of his large thin nose. Something was working swiftly, even passionately, in his brain, and it was evident that his thoughts were more than unpleasant to himself. As the moments passed his strides became more aggressive, and his movements were accompanied by gesticulations of a threatening nature with his clenched fists.

At last he paused in his walk, and dropped again into his chair. Here he sat for a long while. Then, of a sudden, he lifted his head and glanced swiftly about his bare room. Finally he sprang to his feet and crushed his slouch hat on his head, and, crossing over to the oil-lamp on the table, blew it out. Then he passed out into the night, slamming and locking the door behind him.

The night was dark, and the moon would not rise for at least another hour. The air was still laden with the heat of the long summer’s day, and it hummed with the music of stirring insect life. He strode along the trail past the store. He glanced at the lighted windows longingly, for he had an appointment for a game in there that night. But he passed on.

As he came to the camp dumps he paused for a moment to take his bearings. Then he continued his way with long, decided strides, and in a few minutes the dim outline of Scipio’s house loomed up before him. He came close up, and walked slowly round it. At one window he paused, listening. There was not a sound to be heard outside. At the window of the bedroom he listened a long time. No, he could not even hear the children breathing.

At last he reached the door which Sunny had locked. He cautiously tried the handle, and the sound brought a whimper from the yellow pup within. He cursed the animal softly under his breath and waited, hoping the wretched creature would settle down again. He heard it snuff at the foot of the door, and then the soft patter of its feet died away, and he knew that the poor thing had satisfied itself that all was well.

He smiled, and sat down at the foot of the door. And, with his knees drawn up into his arms, he prepared for his long vigil. It was the posting of the night sentry over Scipio’s twins.

CHAPTER VIII
WILD BILL THINKS HARD–AND HEARS NEWS

Wild Bill stretched himself drowsily. It was noon. He knew that by the position of the patch of sunlight on the floor, which he gazed at with blinking eyes. Presently he reached out his long arms and clasped his hands behind his head. He lay there on his stretcher bed, still very sleepy, but with wakefulness gaining ascendancy rapidly. He had completed two successive nights of “sentry-go” over Scipio’s twins, never reaching his blankets until well after sun-up.

For some minutes he enjoyed the delicious idleness of a still brain. Then, at last, it stirred to an activity which once again set flowing all the busy thought of his long night’s vigil. Further rest became impossible to a man of his temperament, and he sprang from his blankets and plunged his face into a bucket of fresh water which stood on an adjacent bench. In five minutes he was ready for the business of the day.

It was to be a day of activity. He felt that. Yet he had made no definite plans. Only all his thoughts of the previous night warned him that something must be done, and that it was “up to him to get busy.”

A long wakeful night is apt to distort many things of paramount interest. But the morning light generally reduces them to their proper focus. Thus it is with people who are considered temperamental. But Bill had no such claims. He was hard, unimaginative, and of keen decision. And overnight he had arrived at one considerable decision. How he had arrived at it he hardly knew. Perhaps it was one of those decisions that cannot be helped. Certain it was that it had been arrived at through no definite course of reasoning. It had simply occurred to him and received his approval at once. An approval, which, once given, was rarely, if ever, rescinded. This was the man.

He had first thought a great deal about Scipio. He felt that the time had come when his fate must be closely inquired into. The blundering efforts of Sunny Oak were so hopelessly inadequate in the care of the children, that only the return of their father could save them from some dire domestic catastrophe.

Sunny apparently meant well by them. But Bill hated well-meaning people who disguised their incompetence under the excellence of their intentions. Besides, in this case it was so useless. These two children were a nuisance, he admitted, but they must not be allowed to suffer through Sunny’s incompetence. No, their father must be found.

Then there was his mare, Gipsy; and when he thought of her he went hot with an alarm which no threat to himself could have inspired. This turn of thought brought James into his focus. That personage was rarely far from it, and he needed very little prompting to bring the outlaw into the full glare of his mental limelight. He hated James. He had seen him rarely, and spoken to him perhaps only a dozen times, when he first appeared on Suffering Creek. But he hated him as though he were his most bitter personal enemy.

He had no reason to offer for this hatred, beyond the outlaw’s known depredations and the constant threat of his presence in the district. At least no reason he would have admitted publicly. But then Wild Bill was not a man to bother with reasons much at any time. And it was the venomous hatred of the man which now drove him to a decision of the first importance. And such was his satisfaction in the interest of his decision, that, for the time being, at least, poker was robbed of its charm, faro had become a game of no consequence whatever, and gambling generally, with all its subtleties as he understood them, was no longer worth while. He had decided upon a game with a higher stake than any United States currency could afford. It was a game of life and death. James, “Lord” James, as he contemptuously declared, must go. There was no room for him in the same district as Wild Bill of Abilene.

It would be useless to seek the method by which this decision was reached. In a man such as Bill the subtleties of his motives were far too involved and deeply hidden. The only possible chance of estimating the truth would be to question his associates as to their opinion. And even then such opinions would be biased by personal understanding of the man, and so would be of but small account.

Thus Minky would probably have declared that his decision was the result of his desire for the welfare of the community in which he claimed his best friends. Sandy Joyce would likely have shaken his head, and declared it was the possibility of something having happened to his mare Gipsy. Toby Jenks might have had a wild idea that Bill had made his “pile” on the “crook” and was “gettin’ religion.” Sunny Oak, whose shrewd mind spent most of its time in studying the peculiarities of his fellows, might have whispered an opinion to himself, when no one was about, to the effect that Bill couldn’t stand for a rival “boss” around Suffering Creek.

Any of these opinions might have been right, just as any of them might have been very wide of the mark. Anyhow, certain it is that no citizen of Suffering Creek would, even when thoroughly drunk, have accused Bill of any leaning towards sentimentalism or chivalry. The idea that he cared two cents for what became of Scipio, or his wife, or his children, it would have been impossible to have driven into their heads with a sledge-hammer. And maybe they would have been right. Who could tell?

His decision was taken without any definite argument, without any heroics. He frankly declared to himself that James must go. And having decided, he, equally frankly, declared that “the proposition was up to him.” This was his silent ultimatum, and, having delivered it, there was no turning back. He would carry it out with as little mercy to himself as he would show to any other concerned.

The men of Suffering Creek thought they knew this man. But it is doubtful if anybody, even the man himself, knew Wild Bill. Probably the nearest approach to a fair estimate of him would have been to describe him as a sort of driving force to a keen brain and hot, passionate heart. Whether he possessed any of the gentler human feelings only his acts could show, for so hard and unyielding was his manner, so ruthless his purpose when his mind was made up, that it left little room for the ordinary observer to pack in a belief of the softer side to the man.

Ten minutes after performing his primitive ablutions Wild Bill was eating breakfast in the dining-room at the store, with Minky sitting opposite to him. The storekeeper was telling him of something that happened the night before, with a troubled expression in his honest eyes.

“I was wonderin’ when you’d get around,” he said, as soon as Birdie Mason had withdrawn to the kitchen. “I’d have given a deal for you to have been playin’ last night. I would sure. There was three fellers, strangers, lookin’ for a hand at poker. They’d got a fine wad o’ money, too, and were ready for a tall game. They got one with Irish O’Brien, an’ Slade o’ Kentucky, but they ain’t fliers, an’ the strangers hit ’em good an’ plenty. Guess they must ha’ took five hundred dollars out of ’em.”

Bill’s sharp eyes were suddenly lifted from his plate. He was eating noisily.

“Did you locate ’em–the strangers?” he grated.

“That’s sure the pinch,” said Minky, wiping his broad forehead with a colored handkerchief. The heat in the dining-room was oppressive. “I’ve never see ’em before, an’ they didn’t seem like talkin’ a heap. They were all three hard-lookin’ citizens, an’–might ha’ been anything from bum cowpunchers to–”

“Sharps,” put in Bill, between noisy sips at his coffee.

“Yes.”

Minky watched a number of flies settle on a greasy patch on the bare table.

“Y’see,” he went on, after a thoughtful pause, “I don’t like strangers who don’t seem ready tongued–none of us do, since the stage-robbin’ set in.”

“You mean–” Bill set his cup down.

Minky nodded.

“We ain’t sent out a parcel of gold for months, an’ I’m kind o’ full up with dust about now. Y’see, the boys has got to cash their stuff, and I’m here to make trade, so–wal, I jest got to fill myself with gold-dust, an’ take my chances. I’m mighty full just now–an’ strangers worry me some.”

“You’re weakenin’,” said Bill sharply, but his eyes were serious, and suggested a deep train of swift thought. Presently he reached a piece of bread and spread molasses on it.

“Guess you’re figgerin’ it ’ud be safer to empty out.”

Minky nodded.

“And these strangers?” Bill went on.

“They’ve lit out,” said Minky ruefully. “I ast a few questions of the boys. They rode out at sun-up.”

“Where did they sleep?”

“Don’t know. Nobody seems to know.”

Minky sighed audibly. And Bill went on eating.

“Ain’t heerd nothing o’ Zip?” the storekeeper inquired presently.

“No.”

“’Bout that mare o’ yours?”

Bill’s face suddenly flushed, and his fierce brows drew together in an ominous frown, but he made no answer. Minky saw the change and edged off.

“It’s time he was gettin’ around.”

Bill nodded.

“I was kind of wonderin’,” Minky went on thoughtfully, “if he don’t turn up–wot’s to happen with them kids?”

“I ain’t figgered.”

Bill’s interest was apparently wandering.

“He’ll need to be gettin’ around or–somethin’s got to be done,” Minky drifted on vaguely.

“Sure.”

“Y’see, Sunny’s jest a hoboe.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t guess Zip’s claim amounts to pea-shucks neither,” the storekeeper went on, his mind leaning towards the financial side of the matter.

“No.”

“Them kids’ll cost money, too.”

Bill nodded, but no one could have detected any interest in his movement.

“How’d it be to get that claim worked for him–while he’s away?”

Bill shrugged.

“Mebbe Zip’ll be gettin’ back,” he said.

“An’ if he don’t.”

“You mean?”

There was interest enough in Bill now. His interrogation was full of suppressed force.

“Yes. James.”

Bill sprang to his feet and kicked back his chair. The sudden rage in his eyes was startling, even to Minky, who was used to the man. However, he waited, and in a moment or two his friend was talking again in his usually cold tone.

“I’ll jest git around an’ see how Sunny’s doin’,” he said.

Then he drew out a pipe and began to cut flakes of tobacco from a black plug.

“See here, Minky,” he went on, after a moment’s pause. “You need to do some thinkin’. How much dust have you got in the store?”

“’Bout twenty thousand dollars.”

“Whew!” Bill whistled softly as he packed the tobacco in his pipe. “An elegant parcel for strangers to handle.”

The storekeeper’s face became further troubled.

“It sure is–if they handle it.”

“Jest so.”

Bill’s pipe was alight now, and he puffed at it vigorously, speaking between the puffs.

“Y’see, this feller James plays a big game. Cattle duffin’ and ord’n’ry stage-robbin’ ain’t good enough, nor big enough, to run his gang on. He needs gold stages, and we ain’t sendin’ gold stages out. Wal, wot’s the conclusion? I ast you?”

“He’ll hev to light out, or–”

“Jest so. Or he’ll get around here to–look into things. Those strangers last night were mebbe ‘lookin’ into things.’ You’ll need to stow that dust where the rats can’t gnaw it. Later we’ll think things out. Meanwhile there’s one thing sure, we don’t need strangers on Suffering Creek. There’s enough o’ the boys around to work the gold, an’ when they get it they mostly know what to do with it. Guess I’ll get on up to Zip’s shack.”

The two men walked out into the store. Minky in a pessimistic mood passed in behind his counter. This question of gold had bothered him for some weeks. Since the first stage-robbing, and James’ name had become a “terror” in the district, he had opened a sort of banking business for the prospectors. Commercially it appealed to him enormously. The profits under his primitive methods of dealing with the matter were dazzlingly large, and, in consequence, the business became a dominant portion of his trade. Nor was it until the quantity of gold he bought began to grow, and mount into thousands of dollars’ worth, that the difficulties of his traffic began to force themselves upon him. Then it was that he realized that if it was insecure to dispatch a gold stage laden with the property of the prospectors, how was he to be able to hold his stock at the store with any greater degree of security.

The more he thought of the matter the greater the difficulties appeared. Of course he saw possibilities, but none of them offered the security he needed. Then worry set in. History might easily repeat itself on Suffering Creek. James’ gang was reported to be a large one. Well, what if he chose to sweep down upon the camp, and clean the place out. Herein lay the trouble. And in consequence his days and nights were none too easy.

He had never spoken of the matter before. It was not a subject to be discussed with anybody. But Bill was different from the rest, and, for several days, Minky had sought an opportunity of unburdening himself to his friend. Now, at last, he had done so, and, in return, had received small enough comfort. Still he felt he had done the best thing.

CHAPTER IX
THE FORERUNNER OF THE TRUST

Bill passed straight through the store and set out across the town dumps. And it would have been impossible to guess how far he was affected by Minky’s plaint. His face might have been a stone wall for all expression it had of what was passing behind it. His cold eyes were fixed upon the hut ahead of him without apparent interest or meaning. His thoughts were his own at all times.

As he drew near he heard Sunny’s voice raised in song, and he listened intently, wondering the while if the loafer had any idea of its quality. It was harsh, nasal and possessed as much tune as a freshly sharpened “buzz-saw.” But his words were distinct. Far too distinct Bill thought with some irritation.

“A farmer ast the other day if we wanted work.
Sez we, ‘Ol’ man, the labour?’ Sez he, ‘It’s binding wheat.’
Sez we, ‘Ol’ man, the figger?’ ‘A dollar an’ a ha’f the sum.’
Sez we, ‘Ol’ man, go an’ tickle yerself, we’d a durned sight sooner bum!’

‘Anythin’ at all, marm, we’re nearly starvin’,
Anything to hel-l-lp the bummers on their wa-ay,
We are three bums an’ jolly good chums,
An’ we live like Royal Turks,
An’ with good luck we bum our chuck,
An’ it’s a fool of a man wot works.’”

Just as Sunny was about to begin the next verse Bill appeared in the doorway, and the vocalist was reduced to a pained silence by his harsh criticism.

“You’d orter be rootin’ kebbeges on a hog ranch wi’ that voice,” he said icily. “You’re sure the worst singer in America.”

Then he glanced round for the children. They were nowhere to be seen. Sunny was at the cookstove boiling milk in a tin “billy.” His face was greasy with perspiration, and, even to Bill’s accustomed eyes, he looked dirtier than ever. He stood now with a spoon poised, just as he had lifted it out of the pot at the moment of the other’s entrance.

“Where’s the kids?” the latter demanded sharply.

Sunny shifted his feet a little uneasily and glanced round the dirty room. The place looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned for a month. There was a hideous accumulation of unwashed utensils scattered everywhere. The floor was unswept, let alone unwashed. And the smell of stale food and general mustiness helped to add to the keenness of the visitor’s nervous edge as he waited for the man’s reply.

“Guess they’re out on the dumps playin’ at findin’ gold,” Sunny said, with a slightly forced laugh. “Y’see, little Vada’s staked out a claim on a patch of elegant garbage, an’ is digging fer worms. Them’s the gold. An’ Jamie’s playin’ ‘bad man’ an’ swoopin’ down on her and sneakin’ her worms. It’s a new game. Y’see, I thought it out and taught ’em how to play it. They’re a heap struck on it, too. I–”

But words somehow failed him under the baleful stare of the other’s eyes. And turning back to the milk he fell into a stupid silence.

“You’ll get right out an’ huyk them kiddies off’n those dumps,” cried Bill sharply. “You got no more sense in your idjot head than to slep when your eyes shut. Diggin’ worms on the dumps! Gee! Say, if it ain’t enough to give ’em bile and measles, an’–an’ spots, then I don’t know a ‘deuce-spot’ from a hay-rake. Git right out, you loafin’ bum, an’ fetch ’em in, an’ then get the muck off’n your face, an’ clean this doggone shack up. I’d sure say you was a travelin’ hospital o’ disease by the look of you. I’m payin’ you a wage and a heap good one, so git out–an’ I’ll see to that darn milk.”

Argument was out of the question, so Sunny adopted the easier course of obedience to his employer’s orders. He dropped the spoon into the milk with a suddenness that suggested resentment, and shuffled out, muttering. But Bill followed him to the door.

“How?” he inquired threateningly.

“I didn’t say nothin’,” lied Sunny.

“I didn’t jest guess you did,” retorted Bill sarcastically. And he watched his man hurry out into the sunlight with eyes that had somehow become less severe.

He waited where he was for some moments. Then he turned back into the room and stared disgustedly about him.

“If a feller can’t fix two kiddies right an’ cook ’em pap without mussin’ things till you feel like dying o’ colic at the sight, he ain’t fit to rob hogs of rootin’ space,” he muttered. “I’d–Gee-whiz! Ther’s that doggone milk raising blue murder wi’–”

He rushed to the stove where the boiling milk was pouring over the sides of the pot in a hissing, bubbling stream. He clutched at the “billy,” scalding his fingers badly, jerked it off the stove, upset the contents on the floor and flung the pot itself across the room, where it fell with a clatter upon a pile of dirty tin plates and pannikins. He swore violently and sucked his injured fingers, while, in angry dismay, he contemplated the additional mess his carelessness had caused. And at that moment Sunny returned, leading two grubby-faced infants by the hand.

“I got ’em back,” he cried cheerfully. Then his shrewd eyes took in the situation at a glance, and they sparkled with malicious glee.

“Gee,” he cried, releasing the youngsters and pointing at the mess on the stove and floor. “Now ain’t that a real pity? Say, how d’you come to do that? It sure ain’t a heap of trouble heatin’ a drop o’ milk. Most any fule ken do that. I tho’t you savvied that, I sure did, or I’d ha’ put you wise. Y’see, you should jest let it ha’ come to the bile, an’ then whip it off quick. My, but it’s real foolish! Ten cents o’ milk wasted for want of a little sense.”

“Our dinner milk,” cried Vada in consternation. “All gone.”

“All dorn,” echoed Jamie, flinging himself on the floor and dipping his fingers into the mess and licking them with grave appreciation.

In a moment he was joined by the inevitable yellow pup, which burnt its tongue and set up a howl. Vada ran to the animal’s assistance, fell over Jamie’s sprawling legs and rolled heavily in the mess.

For some seconds confusion reigned. Sunny darted to Vada’s rescue, sent the pup flying with a well-directed kick, picked the weeping girl up, and tried to shake some of the milk from her dirty clothing. While Bill grabbed Jamie out of the way of any further mischief. The boy struggled furiously to free himself.

“Me want dinner milk,” he shouted, and beat the gambler’s chest with both his little fists.

“You kicked Dougal!” wailed Vada, from under Sunny’s arm.

And at that moment a mild voice reached them from the open doorway–

“Why, what’s happenin’?”

Bill and Sunny turned at once. And the next instant the children were shrieking in quite a different tone.

“Pop-pa,” they shouted, with all the power of their childish lungs. The men released them, and, with a rush, they hurled themselves upon the small person of their father.

Scipio set a bundle he was carrying upon the floor and scrambled Jamie into his arms and kissed him. Then he kissed Vada. After that he stood up, and, in a peculiarly dazed fashion gazed about him, out of a pair of blackened and bloodshot eyes, while the children continued to cling to him.

The two onlookers never took their eyes off him. Sunny Oak gazed with unfeigned astonishment and alarm, but Bill merely stared. The little man was a pitiable object. His clothes were tattered. His face was bruised and cut, and dry blood was smeared all round his mouth. Both eyes were black, and in one of them the white was changed to a bright scarlet.

James’ men had done their work all too well. They had handled their victim with the brutality of the savages they were.

Scipio let his eyes rest on Bill, and, after a moment’s hesitation, as though gathering together his still scattered wits, spoke his gratitude.

“It was real kind of you lendin’ me Gipsy. I set her back in the barn. She’s come to no harm. She ain’t got saddle-sore, nor–nor nothin’. Maybe she’s a bit tuckered, but she’s none the worse, sure.”

Bill clicked his tongue, but made no other response. At that moment it would have been impossible for him to have expressed the thoughts passing through his fierce mind. Sunny, however, was more superficial. Words were bursting from his lips. And when he spoke his first remark was a hopeless inanity.

“You got back?” he questioned.

Scipio’s poor face worked into the ghost of a smile.

“Yes,” he said. And the awkwardness of the meeting drove him to silently caressing his children.

Presently Sunny, who was not delicate-minded, pointed at his face.

“You–you had a fall?”

Scipio shook his head.

“You see, I found him and–his boys got rough,” he explained simply.

“Gee!”

There was no mistaking Sunny’s anger. He forgot his usual lazy indifference. For once he was stirred to a rage that was as active and volcanic as one of Wild Bill’s sudden passions.

But the gambler at last found his tongue, and Sunny was given no further opportunity.

“What you got there?” he asked, pointing at the parcel Scipio had deposited on the floor.

The little man glanced down at it.

“That?” he said hazily. “Oh, that’s bacon an’ things. I got ’em from Minky on my way up. He told me you’d sure got grub up here, an’ I didn’t need to get things. But I guessed I couldn’t let you do all this now I’m back. Say,” he added, becoming more alert. “I want to thank you both, you bin real good helping me out.”

Bill swallowed some tobacco juice, and coughed violently. Sunny was eaten up with a rage he could scarcely restrain. But Scipio turned to the children, who were now clinging silently to his moleskin trousers.

“Guess we’ll get busy an’ fix things up,” he said, laying caressing hands upon them. “You’ll need your dinners, sure. Poppa’s got nice bacon. How’s that?”

“Bully,” cried Vada promptly. Now that she had her father again everything was “bully.” But Jamie was silently staring up at the man’s distorted features. He didn’t understand.

Wild Bill recovered from his coughing, suddenly bestirred himself.

“Guess we’d best git goin’, Sunny,” he said quietly. “Zip’ll likely need to fix things up some. Y’see, Zip,” he went on, turning to the father, “Sunny’s done his best to kep things goin’ right. He’s fed the kiddies, which was the most ne’ssary thing. As for keppin’ the place clean,”–he pointed at the small sea of milk which still stood in pools on the floor–“I don’t guess he’s much when it comes to cleanin’ anything–not even hisself. I ’low he’s wrecked things some. Ther’s a heap of milk wasted. Howsum–”

“Say!” cried the outraged Sunny. But Bill would allow no interruption.

“We’ll git goin’,” he said, with biting coldness. “Come right along. So long, Zip,” he added, with an unusual touch of gentleness. “I’ll be along to see you later. We need to talk some.”

He moved over to Sunny’s side, and his hand closed upon his arm. And somehow his grip kept the loafer silent until they passed out of the hut. Once outside the gambler threw his shoulders back and breathed freely. But he offered no word. Only Sunny was inclined to talk.

“Say, he’s had a desprit bad time,” he said, with eyes ablaze.

But Bill still remained silent. Nor did another word pass between them until they reached Minky’s store.

The moment they had departed Scipio glanced forlornly round his home. It was a terrible home-coming. Three days ago in spite of all set-backs and shortcomings, hope had run high in his heart. Now–He left the twins standing and walked to the bedroom door. He looked in. But the curtains dropped from his nerveless fingers and he turned back to the living room, sick in mind and heart. For one moment his eyes stared unmeaningly at the children. Then he sat down on the chair nearest the table and beckoned them over to him. They came, thrilled with awe in their small wondering minds. Their father’s distorted features fascinated yet horrified them.

Jamie scrambled to one knee and Vada hugged one of the little man’s arms.

“We’ll have to have dinner, kiddies,” he said, with attempted lightness.

“Ess,” said Jamie absently. Then he reached up to the wound on his father’s right cheek, and touched it gently with one small finger. It was so sore that the man flinched, and the child’s hand was withdrawn instantly.

“Oose’s hurted,” he exclaimed.

“Pore poppa’s all hurt up,” added Vada tearfully.

“Not hurt proper,” said Scipio, with a wan smile. “Y’see, it was jest a game, an’–an’ the boys were rough. Now we’ll git dinner.”

But Vada’s mind was running on with swift childish curiosity, and she put a sudden question.

“When’s momma comin’ back?” she demanded.

The man’s eyes shifted to the open doorway. The golden sunlight beyond was shining with all the splendor of a summer noon. But for all his blackened eyes saw there might have been a gray fog of winter outside.

“Momma?” he echoed blankly.

“Ess, momma,” cried Jamie. “When she comin’?”

Scipio shook his head and sighed.

“When she comin’?” insisted Vada.

The man lowered his eyes till they focused themselves upon the yellow pup, now hungrily licking up the cold milk.

“She won’t come back,” he said at last, in a low voice. Then with a despairing gesture, he added: “Never! never!” And his head dropped upon Jamie’s little shoulder while he hugged Vada more closely to his side as though he feared to lose her too.