n intent on Sampson's part and in possibility. Wright, like the great
majority of evil and unrestrained men on the border, had reached a point
where influence was futile. Reason had degenerated. He saw only himself.

"But, George, Diane's the one person on earth who must never know I'm a
rustler, a thief, a red-handed ruler of the worst gang on the border,"
replied Sampson impressively.

George bowed his head at that, as if the significance had just occurred
to him. But he was not long at a loss. "She's going to find it out
sooner or later. I tell you she knows now there's something wrong out
here. She's got eyes. And that meddling cowboy of hers is smarter than
you give him credit for. They're always together. You'll regret the day
Russ ever straddled a horse on this ranch. Mark what I say."

"Diane's changed, I know; but she hasn't any idea yet that her daddy's a
boss rustler. Diane's concerned about what she calls my duty as mayor.
Also I think she's not satisfied with my explanations in regard to
certain property."

Wright halted in his restless walk and leaned against the stone
mantelpiece. He squared himself as if this was his last stand. He looked
desperate, but on the moment showed an absence of his usual nervous
excitement. "Sampson, that may well be true," he said. "No doubt all
you say is true. But it doesn't help me. I want the girl. If I don't get
her I reckon we'll all go to hell!" He might have meant anything,
probably meant the worst. He certainly had something more in mind.

Sampson gave a slight start, barely perceptible like the twitch of an
awakening tiger. He sat there, head down, stroking his mustache. Almost
I saw his thought. I had long experience in reading men under stress of
such emotion. I had no means to vindicate my judgment, but my conviction
was that Sampson right then and there decided that the thing to do was
to kill Wright. For my part, I wondered that he had not come to such a
conclusion before. Not improbably the advent of his daughter had put
Sampson in conflict with himself.

Suddenly he threw off a somber cast of countenance and began to talk. He
talked swiftly, persuasively, yet I imagined he was talking to smooth
Wright's passion for the moment. Wright no more caught the fateful
significance of a line crossed, a limit reached, a decree decided, than
if he had not been present. He was obsessed with himself.

How, I wondered, had a man of his mind ever lived so long and gone