The smile had vanished from Jim’s eyes. For a moment he wondered stupidly, and during that moment, as Peter’s hand was outstretched for the bottle, he passed it across to him.

The other took it, and looked at the label. It was a well-known brand of rye whiskey. And as he looked he seemed to gather warmth and enthusiasm. It was as though the sight of the whiskey were irresistible to him.

“Rye,” he cried. “The juice for oiling the devil’s joints.” And his lips seemed to smack over the words.

Jim was watching. He didn’t understand. Peter’s offer to go with him to hell was staggering, and– But the other went on in his own mildly enthusiastic way.

“We’ll start right here. I’ll get two glasses. We’ll drink this up, and then we’ll get some more at the saloon, and–we’ll paint the town red.” He rose and fetched two glasses from a cupboard and set them on the table. Then he took his sheath knife from his belt, and, with a skilful tap, knocked the neck off the bottle.

“No water,” he said. “The stuff’ll act quicker. We want it to get right up into our heads quick. We want the mad whirl of the devil’s dance; we–”

“But why should you–!”

“Tut, man! Your gait’s good enough for me. There’s room for more fools than one in hell. Here! Here’s your medicine.”

He rose and passed a glass across to Jim, while the other he held aloft.

“Here, boy,” he cried, smiling down into Jim’s face “Here, I’ll give you a toast.” The stormy light in the ranchman’s eyes had died out, and in them there lurked a question that had something like fear in it. But his glass was not raised, and Peter urged him. “A toast, lad huyk your glass right up, and we’ll drink it standing.”

Jim rose obediently but slowly to his feet, and his glass was lifted half-heartedly. There was no responsive enthusiasm in him now; it had gone utterly. Peter’s voice suddenly filled the room with a mocking laugh, and his toast rang out in tones of sarcasm the more biting for their very mildness.

“The devil’s abroad. Here’s to the devil, because there’s no God and the devil reigns. Nothing we see in the world is the work of anybody but the devil. The soil that yields us the good grain, the grass that feeds our stock, the warm, beneficent sun that ripens all the world, the beautiful flowers, the magnificent forests, the great hills, the seas, the rivers, the rain; everything in life. All the beautiful world, that thrills with a perfect life, that rolls its way through æons of time held in space by a power that nothing can shake. All the myriads of worlds and universes we see shining in the limitless billions of miles of space at night, everything, everything. It is the arch-fiend’s work, for there is no God. Here’s to the mad, red, dancing devil, to whom we go!”

Jim’s glass crashed to the floor. He seized the bottle of whiskey and served that in the same way.

“Stop it, you mad fool!” he cried in horror. And Peter slowly put his whiskey down untasted.

Then the dark, horror-stricken eyes looked into the smiling blue ones, and in a flash to Jim’s troubled mind came inspiration. There was a long, long pause, during which eye met eye unflinchingly. Then Jim reached out a hand.

“Thanks, Peter,” he said.

Peter shook his grizzled head as he gripped the outstretched hand.

“I’m glad,” he said with a quaint smile, “real glad you came along–and stopped me drinking that toast. Going?”

Jim nodded. He, too, was smiling now, as he moved to the door.

“Well, I suppose you must,” Peter went on. “I’ve got work, too.” He pointed at his pile of dirt on the table. “You see, there’s gold in all that muck, and–I’ve got to find it.”

CHAPTER VI
EVE AND WILL

Elia was staring at his sister with wide, expectant eyes. Suspense was evidently his dominant feeling at the moment. A suspense which gave him a sickly feeling in the pit of the stomach. It was the apprehension of a prisoner awaiting a verdict; the nauseating sensation of one who sees death facing him, with the chances a thousand to one against him. A half-plaited rawhide rope was lying in his lap; the hobby of making these his sister had persuaded him to turn to profitable account. He was expert in their manufacture, and found a ready market for his wares on the neighboring ranches.

Eve was staring out of the window considering, her pretty face seriously cast, her eyes far away. Will Henderson, his boyishly handsome face moodily set, was standing beside the work-table that occupied the centre of the living-room, the fingers of one hand restlessly groping among the litter of dress stuffs lying upon it. He was awaiting her answer to a question of his, awaiting it in suspense, like Elia, but with different feelings.

Nor did the girl seem inclined to hurry. To her mind a lot depended on her answer. Her acquiescence meant the giving up of all the little features that had crept into her struggling years of independence. There was her brother. She must think for his welfare. There was her business, worked up so laboriously. There was the possible removal from Barnriff to the world of hills and valleys, which was Will’s world. There were so many things to think of,–yet–yet she knew her answer beforehand. She loved, and she was a woman, worldly-wise, but unworldly.

The evening was drawing in, and the soft shadows were creeping out of the corners of the little room. There was a gentle mellowness in the twilight which softened the darns in the patchwork picture the place presented. This room was before all things her shop; and, in consequence, comfort and the picturesque were sacrificed to utility. Yet there was a pleasant femininity about it. A femininity which never fails to act upon the opposite sex. It carries with it an influence that can best be likened, in a metaphoric sense, to a mental aroma which soothes the jagged edges of the rougher senses. It lulls them to a gentle feeling of seductive delight, a condition which lays men so often open to a bad woman’s unscrupulousness, but also to a good woman’s influence for bringing out all that is greatest and best in their nature.

The waiting was too long for Will. He was a lover of no great restraint.

“Well, Eve?” he demanded, almost sharply. “Two months to-day. Will you? We can get the parson feller that comes here from Rocky Springs to–marry us.”

The dwarf brushed his rope out of his lap, and, rising, hobbled to Eve’s side, and stood peering up into her face in his bird-like way. But he offered no word.

Eve’s hand caressed his silky head. She nodded, nodded at the distant hills through the window.

“Yes, Will, dear.”

The man was at her side in an instant, while Elia slunk away. The youth drew back and turned tail, slinking off as though driven by a cruel lash in the hand of one from whom kindness is expected. He did not return to his seat, but passed out of the house. And the girl and man, in their moment of rapture, forgot him. At that moment their lives, their happiness, their love, were the bounds of their whole thought.

For moments they stood locked in each other’s arms, oblivious to all but the hot passion that ran through their veins. They were lost in the dream of love which was theirs. The world was nothing, life was nothing, except that it gave them this power to love. They drank in each other’s kisses till the woman lay panting in the fierce embrace of the man, and he–he was devouring her with eyes which hungered for her, like the eyes of a starving man, while he crushed her in the arms of a man savage with the delicious pain of his passion.

At last it was the woman who stirred to release herself. It is ever the woman who leads where love dominates. She gently but firmly freed herself. She held his hands and looked up into his glowing eyes. She had something to say, something to ask him, and, reluctant though she be, she must abandon for the time the blissful moments when their mutual love was burning to the exclusion of all else. Will’s passionate eyes held her, and for some moments she could not speak. Then, with an effort, she released his hands and defensively turned her eyes away.

“I–I want to speak to you about–Jim,” she said at last, a little hesitatingly.

And the fire in the man’s eyes abruptly died out.

“He was here this morning, and–he was a little strange.”

Will propped himself against the table, and his face, strangely pale, was turned to the window. Nor did he see the snow-capped hills which bounded the entire view. Guilty thoughts filled his mind and crowded out everything else.

“Well?” he demanded, as Eve waited for him to speak.

“You are such friends, dear, that I wanted to ask you–Do you know why he came to see me?”

Will shook his head. Then a smile struggled round his clean shaven mouth.

“Maybe the same reason that makes most fellows crowd round a pretty girl.”

It was a wistful smile that accompanied the girl’s denial.

“I would like to think it was only that,” she said. “Do you know I am very, very fond of Jim. No, no, not in the way you mean,” she exclaimed hastily, as the man turned on her, hot with the jealousy which was so much a part of his Celtic nature. “I have always been fond of Jim. He’s so generous; so kind and self-sacrificing. Do you know, Will, I believe he’d give up anything to you. It is my conviction that his first thought in life is for your welfare and happiness. And somehow, it–it doesn’t seem right. No, I don’t mean that you don’t deserve it, but that–well, don’t you think a man should fight every battle in which he finds himself on his own account? Don’t you think, you who are so capable, that the struggles that every man must encounter in life demand the whole of his energies to bring them to a successful end? I do. It’s not a matter of self exactly, but we are all so full of weaknesses that this unselfish way of dividing our energies is apt to weaken our own defenses. Thus the scheme for our own uplifting, our own purification, rather suffers. You see, I think we are here on this earth for the purpose of bettering ourselves and preparing for that future, which–I know what I am saying sounds selfish, but really, really, I don’t think it is. Do you know, Jim came to ask me to marry him? I know he did. I avoided his direct question, and told him that you asked me last night, and that I had given you my promise. Well, he accepted it as though, as though he had no business to want what you wanted. And his only comment was that you were a ‘good boy,’ and that he thought you’d make me a good husband. Now, don’t laugh”–the man showed not the slightest inclination to do so. His face was livid; there was something like horror in his eyes–“but if I’d been a man in his place I should have been just mad. Do you think I’d have said that? No, Will; my thoughts would have been murderous. But with him it was otherwise, I’m sure. Yet he loved me, and he was hurt. I could see it–oh, I could see it. The agony in his eyes nearly broke my heart. Will, I think we owe Jim something. I know we can’t ever repay it. But we owe him surely. You do, even more than I. I can’t bear to think of his hurt.”

The girl ceased speaking. Will had made no attempt to stop her, yet every word she had spoken lashed him to a savage self-defense.

“I–I didn’t know he loved you,” he lied. Then he stopped with a sickening impulse. But in a moment he went on. He had taken the plunge, and his selfish nature came to his aid. “Poor Jim,” he said, with apparent feeling. “It’s hard luck–mighty hard luck. But, then, Eve, a feller can’t expect a man to stand by where a woman’s concerned. Not even a brother. You see, dear, I love you so bad. I’d lose anything but you, yes, even my life.” He drew nearer to her, but the girl made no response. “Jim’s got to take his ‘medicine.’ Same as I’d have taken mine, if you’d loved him. If Jim squeals, he’s not–”

“Oh, don’t be afraid of that,” Eve exclaimed, with some warmth. “Jim won’t ‘squeal.’ It’s not in him to ‘squeal.’ He’ll take his ‘medicine’ with any man. I’m not thinking of that. It’s–oh, I don’t know–only I think you’re lucky to have such a friend, and I–oh, I wish we could do something for him.”

Eve did not know how to express all she felt, and Will did not help her. He displayed no sympathy, but seemed absolutely indifferent, and she almost felt angry with him.

“There’s nothing to be done.” Then something prompted the man, and he went on harshly. “It was a fair fight and no favor. I love you, Eve; God knows how I love you. And I wouldn’t give you up or lose you for fifty Jims. If Jim stood in the way between us I’d–I’d–push him out at–any cost.”

“Will!” There was horror in the girl’s exclamation. Then the woman in her rose at the contemplation of the man’s love and passion for her. How could it be otherwise? She came to him, and was hugged in arms that almost set her gasping.

“I love you, Eve. I love you! I love you!”

Their lips met, and the woman clung to him in the rush of her responsive passion.

“Oh, Will,” she cried at length. “It’s good to be loved as you love. It’s so good. Kiss me, dear, kiss me again. I am all yours.”

The man needed no bidding. He had wronged his friend; had lied, lied in the worst way a man can lie, to make sure of her. He appreciated the cost, and its value made those moments all the more precious.

But he had no real regret for the wrong he had committed. And this was an unerring index to his nature. He would stand at nothing where his own desires were at stake.

CHAPTER VII
THE CHICKEN-KILLING

An hour later Will left the house. He felt good. He felt that he wanted to shout aloud his good fortune. To a temperament like his there was only one outlet to such feelings. He would go down to the saloon and treat the boys. They should share in his good fortune–to the extent of drink. He cared nothing for them in reality. He cared nothing for anybody but himself. He wanted drink, and to treat the boys served as an excuse.

Since winning Eve he had debated with himself the matter of “straightening up” with regard to drink. It is the usual condition of mind upon such occasions amongst men who live hard. It is an upward moral tendency for the moment, and often the highest inclination of their life’s moral switchback, the one that inevitably precedes the longest and severest drop. At no other time would he have needed an excuse to drink.

He hurried so as not to lose anything of the evening’s entertainment at the saloon, but his way did not take him direct. He had left the bulk of his money secreted in the cupboard in his old hut, a place he still kept in which to sleep when business or pleasure brought him in from the hunting-grounds of the trade which was his.

But the deviation was considerable, nor had he the assistance of any outside influence to keep his mind in focus. Thus he found it drifting whithersoever it chose. It passed from Eve to the saloon, to the money he required to help him pass the evening, to a dozen and one things, and finally settled itself upon the one subject he would rather have avoided. It focused itself upon Jim Thorpe, and, try as he would to break away from this thrall, it clung tenaciously.

He could not get away from Eve’s spoken sympathy for Jim, and every word he recollected stung him poisonously. His regard for Jim was of the frailest texture. He had always regarded him as something inevitable in his life, and that was all. Nor was he to be considered in the least where his own desires were concerned. Yet he cursed that shooting match. He cursed himself for going to see Jim at all. Why had he not gone to Eve in the first place? Then he promptly reassured himself that he had only gone to Jim out of a sense of honor. Yes, it was that shooting match. Jim had forced it on him. That was it. It was wholly Jim’s fault. How was he to know he was going to lose? There was no doubt that Jim was a fine shot, but so was he.

Then through his brain flashed another thought. Maybe it had inspiration in the thought of Jim’s shooting. What would happen when he met Jim, as, sooner or later, he knew he must? What would Jim’s attitude be? He frowned heavily. This had not occurred to him before. Would there be trouble? Well, if there were it might be easier, at least less complicated. On the other hand, what else could Jim do? It was uncomfortably puzzling. His own disposition made it impossible for him to probe the possibilities of such a nature as Jim’s.

He could not answer his question, and it left him with a feeling of apprehension which no prospect of violence could have inspired in him. He told himself he was sorry, regretted the whole occurrence, but there was less truth in his mental apology than in the feelings which his thoughts had inspired. Though in his heart he knew he had done wrong, he had acted with the grossest dishonor toward Jim, he would not admit it; consequently he experienced the nervous apprehension which every wrong-doer, however hardened, always feels at the thought of being confronted with his crime.

By the time he reached his hut he was in a bad mood. He not only rebelled against the worry of his thought, but wanted to vent his feelings. He probably hated Jim just then, and a meeting with him at that moment would undoubtedly have provoked a quarrel.

He was approaching his hut from the back. The place was in darkness, and he groped in his pockets for matches. He had to pass the old hen-roost, which, in their early days in Barnriff, had kept him and Jim supplied with fresh eggs. As he drew abreast of this he suddenly halted and stood listening. There was a commotion going on inside, and it startled him. He could hear the flapping of wings, the scuffling and clucking of the frightened hens.

For the moment he thought of the coyote, that thieving scavenger of the prairie which is ever on the prowl at night. But the next instant he remembered the chicken killing going on in the village. He ran to the door of the roost and flung it wide open. Without waiting for a light he stooped down and made his way in. And that act of stooping probably saved his life. Something whistled over his bent body, splitting the air like a well-swung sword. He knew instinctively it was a knife aimed at him. But the next moment he had grappled with his assailant, and held him fast in his two strong arms.

From that moment there was no further struggle. As he dragged his prisoner out he wondered. Then, in a moment, his wonder passed, as he felt a set of sharp, strong human teeth fasten themselves upon the flesh of his forearm. He dropped his hold and with his free hand seized his captive by the throat and choked him until the teeth released their grip.

To rush his prisoner along before him to the door of the hut and thrust him inside was curiously easy. There was no resistance or struggle for freedom. The captive seemed even anxious to avoid all further effort. Nor was there a word spoken until Will had struck a match and lit the guttered candle stuck in the neck of a whiskey bottle. Then, with the revealing light, he uttered an exclamation of blank astonishment.

Elia, Eve’s brother, stood cowering before him with his usually mild eyes filled with such a glare of abject terror that it might well have inspired pity in the hardest heart.

But Will was not given to pity. The boy’s terror meant nothing to him. All he remembered was his unutterable dislike of the boy, and his satisfaction at having caught the chicken-killer of Barnriff. And, to judge by the boy’s blood-stained hands, in the thick of his fell work.

“So, I’ve caught you, my lad, have I?” he said, with a cold grin of appreciation. “It’s you who spend your time killing the chickens? Well, you’re going to pay for it, you–you wretched deformity.”

The boy cowered back. His curious mind was filled with hatred, but his fear was all-mastering. Will suddenly reached forward and dragged him further into the feeble rays of the candle-light.

“Come here, you young demon!” he cried. “You’re not going to escape punishment because of your sister. You haven’t got her here to protect you. You’ve got a man to deal with. Do you understand, eh? A man.”

“A devil,” Elia muttered, his eyes gleaming.

“Well, at this moment, perhaps, a devil!” Will retorted, giving the boy’s arm a cruel twist. “How’s that?” he inquired, as the boy gave one of those curious cries of pain of his, which had so much likeness to an animal’s yelp.

“Oh, that’s nothing to what you’re going to get,” his persecutor went on. “We do the same here to boys who kill chickens as we do to those who kill and steal cattle. We hang ’em, Elia, we hang ’em. How would you like to be hanged?”

Will watched the working features. He saw and appreciated the terror he was causing, the suffering. But he could draw no further retort.

As a matter of fact he had no definite idea yet as to what he should do with his captive. He was Eve’s brother, but that did not influence him. He probably disliked the boy all the more for it, because one day he would be his brother, and he knew that Elia came before all else in the world in Eve’s thoughts. His jealousy and hatred were well blended, and, in a man of his mind, this was a dangerous combination.

He released his hold on his captive and looked at his bleeding arm. The boy’s teeth had left an ugly wound, and the blood was flowing freely. He turned his eyes again to Elia’s face and a devil lurked in them.

“I’ve a good mind to thrash you, you piece of deformity!” he cried angrily. And he made a move as though to fulfil his threat.

Then that cruel grin gathered round his lips again.

“That’s a good idea,” he said. “Thrash you for myself, and hand you over to those others, after.”

But his words had not the effect which his physical force had. Perhaps the boy, with that peculiar twist he possessed, was reading the indecision, the uncertainty in his captor’s mind. Anyway, the terror in his eyes was becoming less, and a defiant light was taking its place. But Will could see none of this, and he went on.

“I’d hate to be handed over to the boys for hanging–”

Elia suddenly shook his head.

“There’s no hangin’!” he cried, “and you know it. You send me to–the others an’ see what happens to you. I tell you, sis ’ud see you dead before she married you. Guess you best let me go right quick, an’ no more bulldozing.”

The boy had suddenly tacked to windward of him, and Will was confronted with an ugly “lee shore.” The trap he had fallen into was difficult, and he stood thinking. The dwarf had recovered himself, and his bland look of innocence returned to his eyes.

“I killed ’em nigh all–your chickens,” he said earnestly. “I’ll kill the rest later, because they’re yours. I can’t kill you because you are stronger than me, but I hate you. I’m goin’ right out of here now, an’ you won’t stop me.”

But the boy had overreached himself. Will was not easy when at bay.

He took a step forward and seized him by his two arms.

“You hate me, eh?” he said cruelly. “I can’t hand you over to the boys, eh?” He wrenched the arms with a twist at each question, and, at each twist, the boy uttered that weird cry that was scarcely human. “Well, if I can’t,” Will went on through his clenched teeth, wrenching his arms as he spoke, “it cuts both ways; you’ll get your med’cine here instead, and you daren’t speak of it–see, see, see!”

The boy’s cries were louder and more prolonged. Terror had again taken its place in his eyes. Yet he seemed to have no power for resistance. He was held in a paralysis of unutterable fear. With each of Will’s three final words the lad’s arms were nearly wrenched from their sockets, and, as the victim’s final cry broke louder than the rest, the door was flung open and the candle set flickering.

“Stop that!” cried a voice, directly behind Will, and the man turned to find the burly form of Peter Blunt filling the doorway.

But Will was beside himself with rage and hatred.

“Eh?” he demanded. “Who says to stop? He’s the chicken-killer. I got him red-handed.” He held up one of the boy’s blood-stained hands.

“I don’t care what he is. If you don’t loose him instantly I’ll throw you out of this shack.” The big man’s voice was calm, but his eyes were blazing.

Will released the boy, but only to turn fiercely upon the intruder.

“And who in thunder-are you to interfere?” he cried savagely.

Without a moment’s hesitation Peter walked straight up to him. For a second he stood towering over him, eye to eye. Then he turned his back, and thrust out one great arm horizontally across the other’s body, as though to warn him back while he spoke to Elia. There was nothing blustering in his attitude, nothing even forceful. There was a simplicity, a directness that was strangely compelling. And Will found himself obeying the silent command in spite of his fury.

“Get out, laddie,” said Peter gently. “Get out, quick.”

And in those moments while Will watched his prey hobbling to freedom, he remembered Eve and what it would mean if the story of his doings reached her.

As the boy vanished through the doorway Peter turned.

“Thanks, Will,” he said, in his amiable way. “You’d far best let him go. When you hurt that boy you hurt Eve–ter’ble.”

Swift protest leaped to Will’s lips.

“But the chickens. He killed ’em. I caught him red-handed.”

“Just so, Will,” responded the big man easily. “He’ll answer for it–somewhere. There’s things we’ve been caught doing ‘red-handed’ by–some one. And we’ll answer for ’em sure–somewhere.”