That which followed was a hard night for both Bayard and Lytton. The wounded arm was doing nicely, but the shattered nervous system could not be repaired so simply. Since the incident of the ransacked house and the pilfered whiskey, Lytton had not had so much as one drink of stimulant and, because of that indulgence of his appetite, his suffering was made manifold. Denial of further liquor was the penalty Ned was forced to pay for the abuse of Bayard's trust. Much of the time the sick man kept himself well in hand, was able to cover up outward evidence of the torture which he underwent, and in that fact rested some indication of the determination that had once been in him. But this night the effects of his excesses were tearing at his will persistently and sleep would not come.

He walked the floor of the room into which his bed had been moved from the kitchen after the first few days at the ranch; his strength gave out and for a time he lay on the bed, muttering wildly,—then walked again with trembling stride.

Bayard heard. He, too, was suffering; sleep would not come to ease him. He did not talk, did not yearn for action; just lay very quiet and thought and thought until his mind refused to function further with coherence. After that, he forced himself to give heed to other matters for the sake of distraction and became conscious of the sounds from the next room. When they increased with the hours rather than subsiding, he got up, partly dressed, made a light and went to Lytton.

Quarrelling followed. The sick man raved and cursed. He blamed Bayard for all his suffering, denounced him as a meddler, whining and storming in turn. He declared that to fight against his weakness was futile; the next moment vowed that he would return to town, and face temptation there and beat it; and within a breath was explaining that he could easily cure himself, if he could only be allowed to taper off, to take one less drink each day. Before it all, Bayard remained quietly firm and the incident ended by Lytton screaming that at daylight he would leave the ranch and die on the Yavapai road before he would submit to another day of life there.

But when dawn came he was sleeping and the rancher, after covering him carefully, retired to his room for two hours' rest before rousing for a morning's ride through the hills.

He was back at noon and found Lytton white faced, contrite. Together they prepared a meal.

"I was pretty much of an ass last night," Lytton said after they had eaten a few moments in silence. It was one of those rare intervals in which a bearing of normal civility struggled through his despicability and Bayard looked up quickly to meet his indecisive gaze, feeling somehow that with every flash of this strength he was rewarded for all the work he had done, the unpleasantness he had undergone. Rewarded, though it only made Lytton a stronger, more enduring obstacle between him and a consummation of his love.

"I'm sorry," the man confessed. "It wasn't I. It was the booze that's still in me."

"I understand," the cowman said, with a nod. A moment of silence followed.

"There's something else, I'm sorry about," Lytton continued. "The other day I tried to get nasty about a girl, the girl Nora at the Manzanita House, didn't I?"

"Oh, you didn't know what you said."

"Well, if I didn't, that's no excuse." He was growing clearer, obtaining a better poise, assuming a more decided personality. "I apologize to you for what I said, and, if you think best, I'll go see her and apologize for the advances I made to her."

"No, no,"—with a quick gesture. "That wouldn't do any good; she'll never know."

"As you say, then. I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry; that's all. I know how a fellow feels when his girl's name is dragged into a brawl that way. I've noticed you sort of dolling up lately when you've started for town,"—with a faint twinkle in his eyes and a smile that approximated good nature. "I know how it is with you fellows who still have the woman bug,"—a hint of bitterness. "I know how touchy you'll all get. You ... you seem to be rather interested in that Nora girl."

Bayard made no answer. He was uneasy, apprehensive.

"I've heard 'em talk about it in town. Funny that she's the only woman you've fallen for, Bayard. They tell me you won't look at another, that you brought her to Yavapai yourself several years ago. You're so particular that you have to import one; is that it?"

He laughed aloud and a hint of nastiness was again in the tone. The other man did not answer with more than a quickly passing smile.

"Well, you fellows have all got to have your whirl at it, I suppose," Lytton went on, the good nature entirely gone. "You'll never learn except from your own experience. Rush around with the girls, have a gay time; then, it's some one girl, next, it's marriage and she's got you,"—holding up his gripped fist for emphasis. "She's got you hard and fast!"

He stirred in his chair and broke another biscuit in half.

"Believe me, I know, Bayard! I've been there. I.... Hell, I married a girl with a conscience,"—drawling the words, "That's the kind that hangs on when they get you ... that good kind! She's too damn fine for human use, she and her kind. You know," ... laughing bitterly—"she started out to reform me. One of that kind; get me? A damned straight-laced Puritan! She snivelled and prayed and, instead of helping me, she just drove me on and on. She's got me. See? I can't get away from her and the only good thing about being here is that there are miles between us and I don't hear her cant and prating!"

"Seems to me that a woman who sticks by a man when he goes clean to hell must amount to something," observed Bayard, gazing at him pointedly.

Lytton shrugged his shoulders.

"Maybe ... in some ways, but who the devil wants that kind hanging around his neck?" He pushed his plate away and stared surlily out through the door. Bayard tilted back in his chair and looked the Easterner in the face critically.

"Suppose somebody was to come along an' tell you they was goin' to take her off your hands. What'd you say then?"

"What do you mean?" disgruntled at the challenge in Bayard's query.

"Just what I say. You've been tellin' me what a bad mess mixin' with women is. I'm askin' you what you'd do if somebody tried to take your woman. You say it's bad, bein' tied up. How about it, if somebody was to step in an' relieve you?"

The other moved in his chair.

"That's different," he said. "To want to be away from a woman until she got some common sense, and to have another man take your wife are two different things. To have a man take your wife would make anybody want to kill, no matter what trouble you might have had with her. Breaking up marriages, taking something that belongs to another man, has nothing to do with what I was talking about."

"You don't want her yourself. You don't want anybody else to have her. Is that it?"

"Didn't I say that those were two different—"

"You want to look out, Neighbor!" Bayard said, with a smile, dropping the forelegs of his chair to the floor and leaning his elbows on the table. "You're talking one thing and meaning another. You want to keep your head, if you want to keep your wife. Don't make out you want to let go when you really want to hang on. Women are funny things. They'll stick to men like a burr, they'll take abuse an' suffer and give no sign of quittin', because they want love, gentleness, and they hate to give up thinkin' they'll get it from the man they'd planned would give it to 'em.

"But some day, while they're stickin' to a man who don't appreciate 'em, they'll see happiness goin' by ... then, they're likely to get it. And sometime that's goin' to happen to your wife; she'll see happiness somewhere else an' she'll go after it; then, she won't be around your neck, but somebody else'll have her!

"Oh, they're queer things ... funny things! You can't tell where th' man's comin' from that'll meet 'em an' take their heart an' their head. He may be right near 'em all th' time an' they never wake up to it for years; he may come along casual-like, not lookin' for anything, an' see 'em just by chance an' open his heart an' take 'em....

"Once I was in th' Club in Prescott an' I heard a mining engineer from th' East sing a song about some man who lived on th' desert.

"it went,

"An' then he goes on with th' finest love song you ever heard, endin' up:

"... That's the sort of guy that upsets a woman who's hungry for happiness. It's that kind of love they want. They'll stand most anything a long, long time; seems like some of 'em loved abuse. But if a real hombre ever comes along ... Look out!

"You can't tell, Lytton. This thing love comes like a storm sometimes. A man's interest in a woman may be easy an' not amount to much at first. It's like this breeze comin' in here now; warm an' soft an' gentle, th' mildest, meekest little breeze you've ever felt, ain't it? Well, you can't tell what it'll be by night!

"I've seen it just like this, without a dust devil on th' valley or a cloud in th' sky. Then she'd get puffy an' dust would commence to rise up, an' th' sky off there south an' west would begin to look dirty, rusty. Then, away off, you'd hear a whisper, a kind of mutter, growin' louder every minute, an' you'd see trees bend down to one another like they was hidin' their faces from somethin' that scared 'em. Dust would come before it like a wall an' then th' grass would flatten out an' look a funny white under that black and then ... Zwoop! She'd be on you, blowin' an' howlin' an' thunderin' and lightnin' like hell itself.... When an hour before it'd been a breeze just like this."

He paused an instant.

"So you want to look out ... if you want to keep her. Some man on a 'stallion shod with fire' may ride past an' look into your house an' see her an' crawl down an' commence to sing a love song that'll make her forget all about tryin' to straighten you up.... Some feller who's never counted with her may wake up and go after her as strong as a summer storm.

"She's young; she's sweet; she's beau ..."

"Say, who told you about my wife?" Lytton demanded, drawing himself up.

Bayard stopped with a show of surprise. His earnestness had swept his caution, his sense of the necessity for deception, quite away, but he rallied himself as he answered:

"Why, I judge she is. She's stickin' by you like a sweet woman would."

"Well, what if she is?" Lytton countered, the surprise in his face giving way to sullenness. "We've discussed me and my wife enough for one day. You're inexperienced. You don't know her kind. You don't know women, Bayard. Why, damn their dirty skins, they—"

"You drop that!" Bruce cried, rising and leaning across the table. "You keep your lying, dirty mouth shut or I'll..."

He drew his great fists upward slowly as though they lifted their limit in weight. Then suddenly went limp and smiled down at the face of the other man. He turned away slowly and Lytton drawled.

"Well, what's got into you?"

"Excuse me," said the rancher, with a short laugh. "I'm ... I'm only worked up about a woman myself," reaching out a hand for the casing of the doorway to steady himself. "I'm only wondering what th' best thing to do is.... You said yourself that ... experience was th' only way to learn...."

That afternoon Lytton slept deeply. Of this fact Bayard made sure when, from his work in the little blacksmith shop, he saw a horseman riding toward the ranch from a wash that gouged down into Manzanita Valley. When he saw the man slumbering heavily on his bed, worn from the struggle and the sleeplessness of last night, he closed the door softly and returned to resume the shoeing of the pinto horse that stood dozing in the sunlight.

"Oh, you is it, Benny Lynch?" Bayard called, as the horseman leaned low to open the gate and rode in.

"Right again, Bruce. How's things?"

"Fine, Benny. Ain't saw you in a long time. Get down. Feed your horse?"

"No, thanks, we've both et."

The newcomer dismounted and, undoing his tie rope, made his pony fast to a post. He was a short, thick set young chap, dressed in rough clothing, wearing hobnailed shoes. His clothes, his saddle, the horse itself belied the impression of a stock man and his shoes gave conclusive evidence that he was a miner. He turned to face Bayard and pushed his hat far back on his head, letting the sun beat down on his honest, bronzed face, peculiarly boyish, yet lined as that of a man who has known the rough edges of life.

"Mind if I talk to you a while, Bruce?" he asked, serious, preoccupied in his manner.

"Tickled to death, Benny; your conversation generally is enlightenin' an' interestin'."

This provoked only a faint flash of a smile from the other. Bayard kicked a wooden box along beside the building and both seated themselves on it. An interval of silence, which the miner broke by saying abruptly:

"I've done somethin', Bruce, that I don't like to keep to myself. I'm planning on doin' somethin' more that I want somebody to know so that if anything happens, folks'll understand.

"I come to you,"—marking the ground with the edge of his shoe sole, "because you're th' only man I know in this country—an' I know most of 'em—I'd trust."

"Them bouquets are elegant, Benny." Bayard laughed, trying to relieve the tension of the other. "Go ahead, I love 'em!"

"You know what I mean, Bruce. You've always played square with everybody 'round here, not mindin' a great deal about what other folks done so long as they was open an' honest about it. You've never stole calves, you've never been in trouble with your neighbors—"

"Hold on, Benny! You don't know how many calves I've stole."

The other smiled and put aside Bayard's attempt at levity with a gesture of one hand.

"You understand how it is, when a fellar's just got to talk?"

"I understand," said Bayard. "I've been in that fix myself, recent."

"I knew you would; that's why I come."

He shifted on the box and pulled his hat down over his eyes and said:

"I tried to kill a feller th' other night. I didn't make good. I'm likely to make another try some time, an' go through with it."

Bayard waited for more, with a queer thrill of realization.

"You know this pup Lytton, don't you, Bruce? Yes, everybody does, th' ——! I tried to get him th' other night in Yavapai. I thought I'd done it an' lit out, but I heard later I only nicked his arm. That means I've got to do it later."

"It's that necessary to kill him, is it, Benny?" Bayard asked. "I know he was hit.... Fact is, I found him an' took him into th' Hotel an' fixed him up."

Their gazes met. Benny Lynch's was peculiarly devoid of anger, steady and frank.

"That was like you, Bruce. You'd take care of a sick wolf, I guess. Next time, though, I'll give somebody a job as a gravedigger, 'stead of a good Samaritan....

"But what I stopped in to-day for was to tell you th' whole story, so you'd know it all."

"Let her fly, Benny!"

"Prob'ly you know, Bruce, that I come out here from Tennessee, when I was only a spindly kid, with th' old man an' my mammy. We was th' last of our family. They'd feuded our folks down to 'n old man 'n old woman and a kid—me. We come 'cause th' old man got religion and moved west so he wouldn't have to kill nobody. I s'pose some back there claims to have druv him out, but they either didn't know him or they're lyin'. He'd never be druv out by fear, Bruce; he wasn't that kind.

"Well, we drifted through Colorado an' New Mex an' finally over here. We landed out yonder on th' Sunset group which th' old man located an' commenced to work. I growed up there, Bruce. I helped my mammy an' my pap cut down trees an' pick up stone to make our house. I built my mammy's coffin myself when I was seventeen. Me an' pap buried her; me shovelin' in dirt an' rocks, him prayin' an' readin' out of th' Bible."

He paused to overcome the shaking of his voice.

"We hung on there an' was doin' right well with th' mine, workin' out a spell now an' then, goin' back an' developin' as long as our grub an' powder lasted. We got her right to where we thought she was ready to boom, when hard times come along, an' made us slow up. I started out, leavin' th' old man home, 'cause he was gettin' so old he wasn't much use anywhere an' it ain't right that old folks should work that way anyhow.

"I landed over in California and was in an' 'round th' Funeral Range for over two years, writin' to pap occasional an' hearin' from him every few months. I didn't make it very well an' our mine just had to wait on my luck, let alone th' hard times. We wouldn't sell out, then, 'cause we'd had to take little or nothin' for th' property. It worried me; my old man was gettin' old fast, he'd never had nothin' but hard knocks, if he was ever goin' to have any rest an' any fun it'd have to come out of that mine....

"Well, while I was away along come this here Eastern outfit, promised to do all sorts of things, formed a corporation, roped th' old man in with their slick lies, an' give him 'bout a quarter value for what we had. They beat him out of all he'd ever earnt, when he was past workin' for more! Now, Bruce, a gang of skunks that'd do that to as fine an old man as my dad was, ought to be burnt, hadn't they?"

"They had. Everybody sure loved your daddy, Ben."

"Well, the' was nothin' we could do. Them Eastern pups just set down an' waited for us to get tired an' let 'em have a clear field. So we moved out, left our house an' all, went to Prescott an' went to work, both of us, keepin' an eye on th' mine to see they didn't commence to operate on th' sly. After a while I got what looked like a good thing down on th' desert in a new town an' I went there.

"While I was gone, along comes this here Lytton an' finishes th' job. His dad had owned most of th' stock, an' he'd come here to start somethin'. He begun with my pappy. He lied to him, took advantage of an old man who was trustful an' an easy mark. He crooked it every way he could, he got everythin' we had; all th' work of my hands,"—holding their honest, calloused palms out—"all th' hopes of a good old man. It done him no good; he couldn't get enough backin' to do business.... But it killed my dad."

He stared vacantly ahead before saying:

"You know th' rest. Dad died. That killed him, Bruce, an' Lytton was to blame. Ain't that murder? Ain't it?"

"It's murder, Benny, but they won't call it that."

"No, but what they call it don't make no difference in th' right or th' wrong of it, does it? An' it don't matter to me. I've got a law all my own, Bruce, an' it's a damn sight more just 'n theirs!" He had become suddenly alert, intent. "Th' last thing that my old man said was that th' wickedest of th' world had killed him. He wouldn't blame no one man but I will ... I do!"

He moved quickly on the box, bringing himself to face Bayard.

"I come back to this country an' waited. I've been thinkin' it over most two years, Bruce, an' I don't see no way out but to fix my old man's case myself. Maybe if things was different, I'd feel some other way about it, but this here Lytton is worse 'n scum, Bruce. You know an' everybody knows what he is. He's a drunken, lyin' ——! That's what he is!

"I've been watchin' him close for weeks, seein' him drink every cent of my dad's money, seein' him get to be less 'n less of a man.

"One day I was in town. I'd been drinkin' myself to keep from goin' crazy thinkin' 'bout this thing. Just at dusk, just when th' train come in an' everybody was down to th' station, I walked down th' street toward Nate's corral to get my horse. I seen him comin' towards me, Bruce. He was drunk, he could just about make it. He didn't know me, never has knowed who I was, but he looks up at me an' commences to cuss, an' I ... Well, I draws an' fires."

He leaned back against the building.

"He dropped an' I thought things was squared, so I lit out. But I found out I shot too quick ... or maybe I was drunker 'n I thought.

"Where was he hit, Bruce?"

"Left forearm, Benny ... right there."

"Hum ... I thought so. I had a notion that gun was shootin' to th' right."

They sat silent a moment, then he resumed:

"When I got to thinkin' it over I was glad I hadn't killed him. I made up my mind that wasn't the best way. That's a little too much like killin' just 'cause you're mad, so I made up my mind I'd go on about my business until I was meddled with.

"I'm livin' at my home, now, Bruce. I'm back at th' Sunset, livin' in th' cabin me an' my folks built with our hands, workin' alone in our mine, waitin' for good times to come again. I'm goin' to stay there ... right along. It's goin' to be my mine 'cause it rightfully belongs to me, no matter what Lytton's damn corporation papers may say.

"Some day, when he sobers up, he'll start back there, Bruce. I'll be waitin' for him. I won't harm a hair, I won't say a word until he steps on to them claims. Then, by God, I'll shoot him down like he was a coyote tryin' to get my chickens!"

Bayard got up and thoughtfully stroked the hip of the pinto horse.

"I guess I understand, Benny," he said, after a moment. "I'm pretty sure I do."

"He's ... He's as low as a snake's belly, ain't he, Bruce?"—as if for reassurance.

"Yes, an' he'd be lower, Benny, if there was anythin' lower," he remarked, grimly.

"He can shoot though; watch him, Benny! I've seen him beat th' best of us at a turkey shootin'."

"That's what makes me feel easy about it. I wouldn't want to kill a man that couldn't shoot as good as I can, anyhow."

Benny Lynch departed, still unsmiling, very serious, and, as Bayard watched him ride away, he shook his head in perplexity.

"I wish I was as free to act as you are," he thought. "But I ain't; an' your tellin' me has dug my hole just that much deeper!"

He looked out over the valley a long moment. It was bright under the afternoon sun but somehow it seemed, for him, to be queerly shadowed.