s the blood of his
merciless heart.

"I've got glory enough," said Thorn, satisfaction in his voice; "what
I want right now's money."

"Earn it before you collect it."

"Twenty-eight 'd fill a purty fair book, countin' in what I could tell
about the men I've had dealin's with," Thorn reflected, as to himself,
leaning against the mantel, frowning down at the floor with bent
head.

"Talk till you're empty, you old fool, and who'll believe you? Huh!
you couldn't git yourself hung if you was to try!" Chadron's dark face
was blacker for the spreading flood of resentful blood; he pointed
with his heavy quirt at Thorn, as if to impress him with a sense of
the smallness of his wickedness, which men would not credit against
the cattlemen's word, even if he should publish it abroad. "You'll
never walk onto the scaffold, no matter how hard you try--there'll be
somebody around to head you off and give you a shorter cut than that,
I'm here to tell you!"

"Huh!" said Thorn, still keeping his thoughtful pose.

Man-killing is a trade that reacts differently on those who follow it,
according to their depth and nature. It makes black devils of some who
were once civil, smiling, wholesome men, whether the mischance of
life-taking has fallen to them in their duty to society or in outlawed
deeds. It plunges some into dark taciturnity and brooding coldness, as
if they had eaten of some root which blunted them to all common relish
of life.

There are others of whom the bloody trade makes gabbling fools,
light-headed, wild-eyed wasters of words, full of the importance of
their mind-wrecking deeds. Like the savage whose reputation mounts
with each wet scalp, each fresh head, these kill out of depravity,
glorying in the growing score. To this class Mark Thorn belonged.

There was but one side left to that depraved man's mind; his bloody,
base life had smothered the rest under the growing heap of his
horrible deeds. Thorn had killed twenty-eight human beings for hire,
of whom he had tally, but there was one to be included of whom he had
not taken count--himself.

As he stood here against the chimney-shelf he was only the outside
husk of a man. His soul had been judged already, and burned out of him
by the unholy passion which he had indulged. He was as simple in his
garrulous chatter of glory and distinction as a half-fool. His warped
mind ran only on the spectacular end that he had planned for himself,
and the speech from the gallow