sphere of wildness.
And, worst of all, there were no droves of cattle tearing around. Just
a few old milch cows near by, peacefully grazing their day away, and
philosophically awaiting milking time. These, and a few dogs, a horse
or two loose in the corrals, and a group of men idling outside a low,
thatched building, comprised the life he first beheld as he rode into
the clearing.

"And this is Blind Hell," he said to himself as he came. "It belies
its name. A more peaceful, beautiful picture, I've never clapped eyes
on."

And then his thoughts went back to Forks. That too had looked so
innocent. After all, he remembered, it was the people who made or
marred a place.

So he rode straight to a small, empty corral, and, off-saddling,
turned his horse loose, and deposited his saddle and bridle in the
shadow of the walls. Then he moved up toward the buildings where the
men were grouped.

They eyed him steadily as he came, much as they might eye a strange
animal, and he felt a little uncomfortable as he recollected his
encounter first with Slum and more recently with Joe Nelson. He had
grown sensitive about his appearance, and a spirit of defiance and
retaliation awoke within him.

But for some reason the men paid little attention to him just then.
One man was talking, and the rest were listening with rapt interest.
They were cowpunchers, every one. Cowpunchers such as Tresler had
heard of. Some were still wearing their fringed "chapps," their waists
belted with gun and ammunition; some were in plain overalls and thin
cotton shirts. All, except one, were tanned a dark, ruddy hue,
unshaven, unkempt, but tough-looking and hardy. The pale-faced
exception was a thin, sick-looking fellow with deep hollows under his
eyes, and lips as ashen as a corpse. He it was who was talking, and
his recital demanded a great display of dramatic gesture.

Tresler came up and joined the group. "I never ast to git put up
ther'," he heard the sick man saying; "never ast, an' didn't want. It
was her doin's, an' I tell you fellers right here she's jest thet
serrupy an' good as don't matter. I'd 'a' rotted down here wi' flies
an' the heat for all they'd 'a' cared. That blind son of a ---- 'ud
'a' jest laffed ef I'd handed over, an' Jake--say, we'll level our
score one day, sure. Next time Red Mask, or any other hoss thief, gits
around, I'll bear a hand drivin' off the bunch. I ain't scrappin' no
more fer the blind man. Look at me. Guess I ain