or at a gulp
like the other.

"Pity," he said, his eyes turned again to the blood-stained floor. "I
s'pose it was the women--I mean the cause?"

The man's manner was so disarming that Beasley felt quite safe in
"opening out."

"Pity?" he laughed brutally. "Wher's the pity? Course it was the
women. It's always the women. Set men around a bunch of women and
ther's always trouble. It's always been, and it always will be. Ther's
no pity about it I can see. We're all made that way, and those who set
us on this rotten earth meant it so, or it wouldn't be."

The Padre's gray eyes surveyed the narrow face before him. This man,
with his virulent meanness, his iron-gray hair, his chequered past,
always interested him.

"And do you think this sort of trouble would occur if--if the men
hadn't been drunk?" he asked pointedly.

Beasley's antagonism surged, but his outward seeming was perfectly
amiable.

"Meaning me?" he asked, with a grin.

The Padre shrugged.

"I was thinking that these things have been occurring ever since the
camp was flooded with----"

"Rye!" Beasley's eyes sparkled. He reached the Padre's now empty glass
and gave him a fresh one, pushing the bottle toward him. "You'll hev a
drink on me, an' if you've got time, I'll tell you about this thing."

The other submitted, and the drink was poured out. The Padre ignored
his.

"Get right ahead," he said in his easy way.

Beasley leered over the rim of his glass as he drank his whisky.

"You think it's rye," he said, setting his glass down with unnecessary
force. "An' I say it's the women--or the woman. Trouble come to this
camp with that tow-headed gal over at the farm. Anybody with two eyes
could see that. Anybody that wasn't as blind as a dotin' mother. The
boys are all mad 'bout her. They're plumb-crazed. They got her
tow-head and sky-blue eyes on their addled brains, an' all the
youngsters, anyway, are fumin' jealous of each other, and ready to
shoot, or do anything else that comes handy, to out the other feller.
That's the root of the trouble--an' you brought that about selling her
your farm."

Beasley had let himself go intending to aggravate, but the other's
manner still remained undisturbed.

"But this only happens when they're drunk," he said mildly.

Beasley's angry impatience broke out.

"Tcha'! Drunk or sober it don't make any difference. I tell you the
whole camp's on edge over that gal. It only needs a word to set things
hummin'. It