s of his desert. He called himself a foremost example of
stupidity and thick-headedness for not giving ear to the man who wanted
to talk business the day he filed on that outcast corner of the earth.
Then, growing stubborn, he would determine to pay the government the
purchase price, clean up on it at once, and take title to it. Then, if
it _had_ the stuff in it, they might come around with some sort of offer
in time.

No matter; he would stick to it himself until winter. That always was
his final conclusion, influenced, perhaps, by a hope that the roughness
of winter would speedily convince "somebody" that roses and dreams of
roses belonged to the summer. He would have nothing more to pay on the
homestead for a year. And much could happen in a year, in a day; even an
hour.

Slavens had a good tent in a sheltered place, which he believed he could
make comfortable for winter, and he meant to send for some books.
Meantime, he had tobacco to smoke and a rifle to practice with, and
prospects ahead, no matter which way the cat might jump.

The doctor's target practice was a strong contributing force to the
general belief among his neighbors that he was deranged. They said he
imagined that he was repelling invaders from his claim, which would be
valuable, maybe, to a man who wanted to start a rattlesnake farm. But
Slavens had a motive, more weighty than the pastime that this seemingly
idle pursuit afforded. There was a time of settlement ahead between him
and Jerry Boyle for the part the Governor's son had borne in his
assault. When the day for that adjustment came, Slavens intended to seek
it.

Concerning Shanklin, he was in a degree satisfied with what he had done.
The loss of that much money, he believed, was a greater drain on the old
crook than a gallon of blood. Slavens felt that it hurt Shanklin in the
gambler's one sensitive spot. There was a great deal owing to him yet
from that man, in spite of what he had forced Shanklin to pay, and he
meant to collect the balance before he left that state.

So the rifle practice went ahead, day by day, supplemented by a turn now
and then with Hun Shanklin's old black pistol, which Mackenzie had
turned over to Slavens as part of his lawful spoil.

While Dr. Slavens banged away among his rocks, not knowing whether he
was a victim of his own impetuosity or the peculiarly favored son of
fortune, Agnes Horton, in her tent beside the river, was undergoing an
adjustment of vision