The little town of Zacaton City, within easy trucking distance of the railroad, formed the nucleus of a goodly mining centre. Its residential section was extensive, and consisted of adobes occupied by “native” miners or workmen. Its business section was made up chiefly of a bank, the Central Mercantile Store, hardware, drug, and harness shops, and a soda-water parlour that adjoined the Central Mercantile. This last was a blind pig, maintained with circumspection and profit by Ben Aimes, manager of the store. Aimes also ran the combination hotel-garage across the street.

Thady Shea came into town about sunset. He had broken bread on the way, and disdained to seek further dinner. Having been much cautioned, he was wary of danger. Leaving the dust-white flivver at the garage, he went to the express office and sent off his ore samples and letter, then he sought the emporium of Ben Aimes.

The two native clerks being busy, Aimes, a brisk fellow of thirty, espied the tall figure of Shea, and in person took charge of the customer.

“Well, partner, what can I do for you?” he inquired, cheerfully. “Can’t say as I’ve seen you before. Stranger in town?”

Shea fumbled in his pocket for the list of supplies, and transfixed the merchant with his cavernous black eyes. He had been particularly warned against Aimes.

“Friend,” he trumpeted, “you say sooth. Truth sits upon thy lips, marry it does!”

Aimes blinked rapidly. “Stranger, I don’t get you! You’re a prospector?”

“That, sir, is somewhat of my present business,” boomed Shea. “Yet have I seen the day when every room hath blazed with lights and brayed with minstrelsy, when thick-eyed musing and cursed melancholy fled from before me like twin evil spirits! Make ready, friend, thy pencil for its task.”

Those sonorous tones drew grinning attention from others. Aimes, quite overcome by the rounded periods and the imposing gestures, asked no more questions, but devoted himself to making ready packages as Shea read off from his list the supplies required.

Two or three loafers sauntered along and listened to Shea’s enunciation with awed delight. When the end of the list was reached, the amounts totalled, and the money handed over, Thady Shea carelessly crumpled up the list and tossed it behind the counter.

His arms filled with the bundles, he left the store and crossed the street to his car. He had laid up the flivver for the night, and now attended to having it filled with gas and oil. He stated to the mechanic that he might be here for several days; at this juncture, it occurred to him that he had forgotten that axe helve which Mrs. Crump had demanded especially.

Meantime, Ben Aimes had retrieved the list of supplies, and had stared at the uncrumpled paper with amazed recognition. He swiftly summoned one of the idling loafers.

“If this ain’t the writing of Mrs. Crump, I’m a liar! You chase over to the garage and get the number o’ that feller’s car—hump, now!”

Thady Shea reËntered the store, in blissful ignorance that he was done for, and demanded his axe helve. Ben Aimes, in blissful ignorance of what that axe helve was destined to mean to him and to others, filled the order. Then, handling Shea his change, Aimes gave him a meaning wink.

“Step into the sody parlour a minute, stranger! Have a cigar on the store.”

The offer was entirely innocuous. Shea greatly desired to avoid any argument or trouble, so he followed Aimes into the adjoining room, which at this hour was deserted. Aimes procured cigars, then went to the soda fountain.

“Want you to try somethin’ new we got here,” he said, and paused. “What did you say your name was?”

“My cognomen, sir, is Shea. Thaddeus Shea.”

“Well, Shea, just hold this under your nose and see if it smells like sody.”

Unsuspicious as any innocent, Shea took the proffered glass and held it to his nose. A tremor ran through him—an uncontrollable shiver that sent fever into his eyes. He lowered the glass slightly and forced a ghastly smile. Already defeat had engulfed him.

“Friend, I am sorry thus to disappoint you, but I have sworn that never——”

“Shucks!” Aimes grinned and held up his own glass. To meet it, that of Shea again came within sniffing distance. “Just one between business acquaintances, Mr. Shea. It’s the finest licker ever got to this city! Absolutely twenty year old, partner. One little snifter now—don’t it smell good? The real thing, the real thing!”

Thady Shea’s entire system was impregnated by that whiff. His big fingers closed upon the little glass with a convulsive contraction.

“One, sir, and one only!” he declaimed. “To the dead god Bacchus, all hail!”

He tossed down the drink and smacked his lips.

It was upon a Saturday evening that these things happened. That smell had done the business for Thady Shea; that raw odour of whiskey, which in a flash had permeated to the very deeps of his being with its awful lure. No guile, no argument could have forced him to drink, but that sniff had ruined him utterly.

Twenty minutes later, in maudlin confidence, he was relating to Ben Aimes how two miners of his acquaintance had driven several hundred miles in deadly fear of being hoisted by dynamite at every jolt.

Shea mentioned no names. Drunk or not, he knew subconsciously that he must mention no names. Also subconsciously, he knew that he must hang on to his axe helve or Mrs. Crump would be much disappointed in him. So he was still hanging on to it when, after a parting drink, he was thrust forth into the cold night air. That parting drink had been soggy with opiates.

Ben Aimes went to the telephone and called up the sheriff at Silver City.

“This is Aimes at Zacaton, Bill,” he said. “A queer guy just blew in here to-night with a grand souse and is sleeping it off now. You know old lady Crump, don’t you? Heard of her at any rate. Well, he says that she’s out in the hills a piece with two other fellers. These two were run out o’ Magdalena last month for talking agin’ the gov’ment and they’re said to be dangerous characters. The place is north o’ the bad lands, over in Socorro County.

“The p’int is, Bill, this here guy says they’ve got heap o’ dynamite and such stuff out there. Them two anarchists ought to be prevented usin’ it; according to this guy, they got no licenses and never heard o’ the new license law. This here is plumb illegal and you’d ought to stop it. Both these fellers are I. W. W. organizers, he says, and prob’ly are German spies; this guy talked with a queer kind of accent.

“No, I wouldn’t think it o’ Mrs. Crump, neither, but you never can tell these days. What’s that? Well, I got the location pretty straight from this guy. Yep, a car can make it; he come into town that way. Get up on the night train and you can take my car out there. Sure, I’ll meet the train. You’re welcome.”

This pleasant duty finished, Aimes dispatched a lengthy telegram to Abel Dorales at Santa FÉ. He then summoned the constable in search of Thady Shea. But Shea had vanished from human ken, although the dust-white flivver remained in the garage.

Bright and early next morning Aimes departed in his automobile, went to the railroad and met the sheriff, and brought that official back to town. The hardware merchant was pressed into service as a deputy, and the sheriff took over Aimes’ car.

“I’d like to go along myself,” said Aimes, regretfully, “but I got to ’tend the garridge myself to-day account of my mechanic hurting himself last night and being laid up. Tell ye what, Bill! Why not take the whole crowd right down to Silver City? It’ll save ye comin’ back here, and your new deppity yonder can fetch the car back here. Sure, you’re dead welcome! I ain’t got no use for the car anyhow.”

To this arrangement the sheriff consented gladly, and Aimes watched them depart with a twinkle in his eye. Before Mrs. Crump could possibly return from Silver City, to say nothing of her two men, Abel Dorales would be on the spot to take charge of things. Aimes considered that he had managed things very neatly indeed, and he mentally patted himself on the back that morning.

Ben Aimes, however, did not take local politics into account. It is such little unconsidered trifles which very often go to make up the warp of affairs of larger moment.

Only a few months previously an ancient and honourable gentleman by the name of Ferris had been ousted from the job of justice of the peace, mainly on account of certain hostility to Ben Aimes and the Mackintavers forces. It is quite possible that old man Ferris was no good as a justice, yet he had an inconspicuous but important part to play in the tangled affairs of Thady Shea and Sandy Mackintavers, to say nothing of the seven stone gods.

In broad daylight, therefore, Thady Shea came to his senses. While slow remembrance dawned upon him, he found himself reposing in the back yard of an adobe house; how he got there was never explained. A furred tongue and an aching head gradually brought home some errant sense of shame. This feeling was intensified by a goat-like visage above him.

“Well, pilgrim!” sounded a raucous voice. “Slep’ it off, have ye?”

Shea groaned and sat up. “Where—where am I?”

“Town of Zacaton City, county o’ Grant, State o’ New Mexico.” The other chuckled. He was a disreputable old fellow, distinguished by shiftless garb and dirty gray hair. “I reckon Ben Aimes must have give ye quite a jag, eh? If I was you, I’d spill out o’ town right smart. He’s got the constable lookin’ for ye.”

Shea clasped his head and groaned again, not understanding the words clearly.

“I’ve fallen!” he moaned.

“With a thud,” agreed the other. “But worse’n that, pilgrim. Ye’ve gone and got ol’ Mis’ Crump in real bad. If ye wasn’t so mis’able I’d boot ye out o’ here for it.”

Thady Shea stared up dully. “What—what’s that you say?”

Old man Ferris surveyed him in pitying contempt, and carefully sank his remaining fangs into a plug of tobacco.

“D’ye mean as ye don’t know what ye been an’ done? Well, I can’t say as I can see why Mis’ Crump ever’s taken up with the likes of you, but it’s plumb certain that ye’ve gone an’ done for her this trip, ye no-account swine!”

Shea’s brow broke into cold perspiration. His quickening faculties began to grasp the sense of these words.

“Expound!” he said. “What have I done?”

“A plenty. The sheriff come over this mornin’. Him and a deppity has gone to arrest Mis’ Crump—and all along o’ you, ye mis’able coyote!”

“Arrest her? Why?” Shea stared, his heart sinking. So piteous was his gaze that old man Ferris turned aside, spat, and resumed his discourse in kindlier tones.

“Don’t ye know that they’s a new law about explosives? Well, they is. Everybody what handles powder or dynamite has got to have a license. From what I gather, Mis’ Crump ain’t wise to it and ain’t got none.

“Last night you done blabbed out your soul to Aimes. Danged fool! Why did Aimes git the sheriff after Mis’ Crump? Ain’t but one answer to that—so’s that devil Mackintavers could profit! And sheriff’s goin’ to take ’em to Silver City, too. If Mis’ Crump has located an ore prop’ty, as looks likely, Mackintavers is after it.

“Once she gits out’n the way and they ain’t nobody to hold down the location, some o’ Mackintavers’ crowd is going to jump it sure’s shooting! Huh! Git out’n my back yard ’fore I come back, ye swine!”

Snorting angrily, old man Ferris turned and stamped away, and so out of the story. He had fulfilled his share in destiny, with greater measure than he knew.

Thady Shea sat staring, his eyes terrible with comprehension. With every moment that final exposition sank more deeply into his brain. The ghastly consequences of his own weakness left him stunned and paralyzed.

He could dimly remember what had happened, up to that final drink. He was certain that he had not mentioned the name of Mehitabel Crump. Yet he could remember telling about those explosives; as he connected things, he groaned again. Aimes had been pumping him, of course; had somehow suspected something.

The pitiless deduction of old man Ferris struck upon Shea’s brain like a trip-hammer. The mine was left unprotected, or soon would be, and Mackintavers’ men would grab it. Of course!

Frightful remorse crumpled Thady Shea, mentally and bodily. He owed all that he was, all that he might be, to Mrs. Crump; yet his action had literally ruined her. That cursed sniff of whiskey had done it! Shea wasted no recrimination upon himself for his lapse from rectitude. He had gone through all that before. It was the consequence of this lapse that horrified him, that lashed down upon his soul.

“What have I done!” he mumbled, groping for coherency. “What have I done!”

All the old memories of Mrs. Crump flooded into his mind. He recalled all her actions and words, he pictured mentally all the deep waters of human kindness that lay hidden below her mask of harshness, he visioned anew how she had picked him out of the very gutter and had set him upon his feet, a man. How had he repaid her?

In this hour Thady Shea was cast absolutely upon himself. There was none to whom he might go for advice or aid. He was alone with his consciousness of guilt, alone with the remorse that ate into his heart like acid. A month previously he would have mouthed a curse at the world and have gone shambling away in search of the nearest saloon, where he would have recited “The Face on the Barroom Floor” as the sure and certain price of liquor.

This thought recurred to him. He pictured himself as he was a month ago. From his lips was wrenched an inarticulate cry, the voice of a soul in anguish. Heedless of the burning ache in his head, he brought his long body erect and looked up at the sky.

“Oh, God!” he said, a dry sob in his throat. “Oh, God! I have scoffed and blasphemed because You let me stumble down into hell. It was my own fault, God. Now, for the sake of that woman who helped me to find myself, it’s up to You to give me a hand! I don’t know what to do. But I’ve got to make up for this thing that I’ve done, and there is no one to help me except You—and it’s for her sake——”

The words failed, for as he spoke out his heart the deepness of feeling that had laid hold upon him ebbed; just as the bitterness of grief ebbs with tears. A tremor shook him, and for a moment he stood motionless.

Close at hand was an acequia, an open ditch with running water. He went to it, kneeled, and plunged his head into the water; it cooled his brain and steadied him. He rose and saw his axe helve lying where he had lain that night. He picked it up and stood there, indecision eating into him.

What was to be done? He must do something. The constable was seeking him—why? No matter. The name of Ben Aimes explained everything. The morning was wearing along, and by this time all hope of warning Mrs. Crump was gone. Of course, there was the dust-white flivver. He could take that and sneak back to the mine. It would be deserted.

Deserted? But that was what Mackintavers wanted, according to this disreputable ancient! That was why Mrs. Crump was under arrest! That was the aim and purpose of the whole affair—to have the mine left deserted, so that the man Dorales could step in and seize upon it.

The gaunt, grim face of Shea tightened and hardened. “One thing I can do—go there,” he reflected. “What the hell have I to worry about—can they do any worse to me than I have done to myself? No. They’ll try to arrest me, they’ll try to keep me here. They can’t do it! I’m going.”

As he left the place and sought the road, there was a sublime unconsciousness of self in him. He was in no condition of mind to do the usual, the conventional thing, the thing that any sane man would have done, the thing that any one would be expected to do.

No! From that hour, Shea was a different man. He had entered upon this new and primitive existence, and now it took hold upon him. His course of life had been abruptly shifted, and he was climbing new paths; as he climbed, the exhilaration of the heights sang in his blood. He had flung away the lessons of his old dreary years. Now his actions were to be the simple, terrible, and impulsive actions of a child who fears no consequences.

Finding that he was only a couple of blocks from the main street of the town, Shea walked toward it, the axe helve still in his hand. He meant to take out his flivver and go.

There was no church in Zacaton City, and it was not yet time for the Mormon chapel to open. The garage doors were wide. In front, standing in the warm sunlight, Ben Aimes was chatting with the constable about the mysterious disappearance of the man Shea. Half-a-dozen idlers were lined up to one side, smoking and discussing the coming and going of the sheriff. Around the corner of the store, across the street, swung the gaunt figure of Shea.

“By gosh!” exclaimed Aimes, staring. He clutched the arm of the constable. “There’s the cuss now! Lay him up until Dorales gets here to-morrow, anyhow. Whew! I’m glad he’s showed up at last. Must ha’ been laying in a ditch.”

The loafers galvanized into sudden interest. The constable started across the street and met Shea midway. He held out one hand, with the other showing his badge of office.

“Get out of my way,” said Shea, lifelessly, looking through him.

“None o’ that, now,” snorted the constable. “You come along with me.”

With a smack that was heard for half a block, the axe helve swung a vicious half-circle and landed over the officer’s ear. The constable threw out his hands and fell on his face, lying motionless. Shea strode forward.

“Lay on to him, boys, he’s locoed!” cried Aimes, turning to the men behind. He whirled again to face Shea, and his right hand crept to his hip. “Hello, Shea! lay down that——”

“You gave me a drink last night, didn’t you?” said Shea, halting before him.

Aimes laughed, thinking that he perceived what was in the other’s mind.

“Oh, want another, do ye?” he returned. “Well, lay down that——”

“You’re the man that gave me a drink,” said Shea. His deep bass voice boomed upon the morning air like a bell. “If any man dares to give me a drink again, he’ll get worse than this.”

Aimes suddenly perceived danger, and whipped out his weapon. Swifter than his hand was the axe helve. It struck his wrist and knocked the revolver away. As he staggered to the blow, the axe helve swung again and smote him over the head. Aimes made a queer noise in his throat and limply sank down.

There was something frightful in the deliberate way those two men had been felled. For a moment Shea stood gazing at the loafers, who shrank back before his blazing eyes. Then:

“I’ll do worse than this to any man who dares give me a drink again,” he said.

Without further heed, he passed into the garage. Up and down the street men were calling, running. The group outside the place looked at each other, their faces blanched.

“My Lord!” gasped someone. “He’s done killed ’em both! In after him, boys.”

Thady Shea laid down his bludgeon in front of the dust-white flivver, and began to crank. For almost the first time in his life he had struck a man in cold anger; more terrible than this thought, however, was the acid-like bitterness in his soul.

Just as the engine caught and roared, Shea, rising, saw over his shoulder the string of men pouring in upon him. He had no time to get into his car. With a quick motion he caught up the axe helve; swiftly the foremost men flung themselves upon him, and found him facing them.

There in the obscurity of the little garage ensued a scene that is still told of from Silver City to Magdalena. All noise was drowned in the roar of the engine that throbbed behind Shea. Outside, other men paused to ask what was going on, to group about the figures of Aimes and the constable. Inside, Shea fought for more than his life.

There were six men against him; yet, in the felling of those two outside, the battle had been half won, for the cold terror of Shea’s blows had made itself felt. The first man at him shrieked out and fell, crawling away with a broken arm. The others came in before Shea could recover from the blow, and fastened upon him like dogs upon a mountain lion.

Silent, deadly, Shea swung up his weapon and waited. He took their blows without return. He braced himself against the throbbing car behind him, and awaited his time. Then he began to strike. There was nothing blind and frantic in his blows; rather there was something fearful and inhuman, for inside him was that which rendered him insensible to the smiting fists, and when he brought down his weapon it was with simple and deadly intent.

Three times he struck, each time lifting on his toes, and twice lifting one man who had fastened about his waist. To his three blows, a man reeled away into the darkness; a second plunged forward beneath an adjacent car; a third ran screaming into the open air, across his face a bloody blotch. A fourth man, unhurt, turned and ran.

Shea looked down, curiously, at the last assailant, who was still gripping him around the waist, trying to bend him backward. Then he deliberately heaved up his axe helve and brought down the rounded oval of the halt against the man’s head twice. At the second crunching blow the man’s grip relaxed. Shea threw him, staggering and clutching, clear across the garage floor, then turned and leaped into his car.

With a grinding roar and a honk of the horn, the dust-white flivver went out of the wide-open doorway into the street.

Men jumped aside, yelled, pursued. Somebody fired a revolver, and the bullet smashed the windshield in front of Shea’s face. Other shots sounded, but flew wild. The car went around the nearest corner on two wheels, and shot away toward the west at thirty miles an hour.

Thady Shea had come and gone.