ble vengeance was his, from the contemplation of which
he drew a satisfaction which no possession of property could have given
him. Nature had, with incorrigible perversity, cut him out for a life of
ease, whilst endowing him with a character capable of very great things.
Now, in her waywardness she had aroused that character and overthrown
the hindering superficialty in which she had clothed it. And further to
mark her freakish mood, these same capabilities which might easily,
under other circumstances, have led him into the fore-front of life's
battle, she directed, with inexorable cruelty, into an adverse course.
He had been cheated, robbed, and his soul thirsted for revenge. Lablache
had robbed the uncle of the girl he loved, and, worse than all, the
wretch had tried to oust him from the affections of the girl herself.
Yes, he thirsted for revenge as might any traveler in a desert crave for
water. His eyes, no longer sleepy, gleamed as he thought. His long,
square jaws seemed welded into one as he thought of his wrongs. His was
the vengeance which, if necessary, would last his lifetime. At least,
whilst Lablache lived no quarter would he give or accept.

Something of this he was thinking as he took his farewell of the ranch
on the hill, and struck out in the direction of the half-breed camp
situated in a hollow some distance outside the settlement of Foss
River.

CHAPTER XIII

THE FIRST CHECK

The afterglow of sunset slowly faded out of the western sky. And the
hush of the night was over all. The feeling of an awful solitude, which
comes to those whose business is to pass the night on the open prairie,
is enhanced rather than reduced by the buzz of insect life upon the
night air. The steady hum of the mosquito--the night song of the
grasshoppers and frogs--the ticking, spasmodic call of the invisible
beetles--all these things help to intensify the loneliness and magnitude
of the wild surroundings. Nor does the smoldering camp-fire lessen the
loneliness. Its very light deepens the surrounding dark, and its only
use, after the evening meal is cooked, is merely to dispel the savage
attack of the voracious mosquito and put the fear of man into the hearts
of the prairie scavenger, the coyote, whose dismal howl awakens the
echoes of the night at painfully certain intervals, and often drives
sleep from the eyes of the weary traveler.

It is rare that the "cow-hand" pitches his camp amongst hills, or in the
ne