d thrust him in
the way of this revolting thing, that had thrust upon him this infamous
office that carried with it the inexorable curse of blood. Softly,
against the counsel of his own reason, he had been drawn. She who had
stared in horror on the wreckage of that night had inveigled him with
gentle word, with appeal of pleading eye.

This resentment was sharpened by the full understanding of his
justification, both in law and in morals, for the slaying of these
desperate men. Duty that none but a coward and traitor to his oath would
have shunned, had impelled him to that deed. Defense of his life was a
justification that none could deny him. But she had denied him that. She
had fled from the lifting of his face as from a thing unspeakably
unclean.

He could not chide her for it, nor arraign her with one bitter thought.
She had hoped it would be otherwise; her last word had been on her best
hope for him in a place where such hope could have no fruition--that he
would pass untainted by the bloody curse that fell on men in this place.
It could not be.

Because he had taken Seth Craddock's pistol away from him on that first
day, she had believed him capable of the superhuman task of enforcing
order in Ascalon without bloodshed. Sincere as she had been in her
desire to have him assume the duties of peace officer, she had acted
unconsciously as a lure to entangle him to his undoing.

Very well; he would clean up the town for her as she had looked to him
to do, sweep it clear of the last iniquitous gun-slinger, the last
slinking gambler, the last drab. He would turn it over to her clean,
safe for her day or night, no element in it to disturb her repose. At
what further cost of life he must do this, he could not then foresee,
but he resolved that it should be done. Then he would go his way,
leaving his new hopes behind him with his old.

Although it was a melancholy resolution, owing to its closing provision,
it brought him the quiet that a perturbed mind often enjoys after the
formation of a definite plan, no matter for its desperation. Morgan went
to the hotel, where Tom Conboy was still on duty smoking his cob pipe in
a chair tilted back against a post of his portico.

"Well, the light's out up at Peden's," said Conboy, feeling a new and
vast respect for this man who had proved his luck to the satisfaction of
all beholders in Ascalon that night.

"Yes," said Morgan, wearily, pausing at the door.

"They'll never b