er reckless existence, and I was getting pretty old for such kid
foolishness. He had measured out the dose, and I meant to swallow it
without whining--but it was exceeding bitter to the palate!

"I see the ticket is dated twenty-four hours ahead," I said as calmly as
I knew how, "which gives me time to have Rankin pack a few duds. I hope
the outfit you furnish includes a red silk handkerchief and a Colt's .44
revolver, and a key to the proper method of slaying acquaintances in the
West. I hate to start in with all white chips."

"You probably mean a Colt's .45," said dad, with a more convincing
calmness than I could show. "It shall be provided. As to the key, you will
no doubt find that on the ground when you arrive."

"Very well," I replied, getting up and stretching my arms up as high as
I could reach--which was beastly manners, of course, but a safe vent for
my feelings, which cried out for something or somebody to punch. "You've
called the turn, and I'll go. It may be many moons ere we two meet
again--and when we do, the crime of cracking my own champagne--for I paid
for it, you know--on my own automobile wheels may not seem the heinous
thing it looks now. See you later, dad."

I walked out with my head high in the air and my spirits rather low, if
the truth must be told. Dad was generally kind and wise and generous, but
he certainly did break out in unexpected places sometimes. Going to the
Bay State Ranch, just at that time, was not a cheerful prospect. San
Francisco and Seattle were just starting a series of ballgames that
promised to be rather swift, and I'd got a lot up on the result. I hated
to go just then. And Montana has the reputation of being rather beastly in
early March--I knew that much.

I caught a car down to the Olympic, hunted up Barney MacTague, and played
poker with him till two o'clock that night, and never once mentioned the
trip I was contemplating. Then I went home, routed up my man, and told him
what to pack, and went to bed for a few hours; if there was anything
pleasant in my surroundings that I failed to think of as I lay there, it
must be very trivial indeed. I even went so far as to regret leaving Ethel
Mapleton, whom I cared nothing for.

And above all and beneath all, hanging in the background of my mind and
dodging forward insistently in spite of myself, was a deep resentment--a
soreness against dad for the way he had served me. Granted I was wild and
a useless cumberer of civil