ssion, "we got a right, same as
other folk, to live, an' our kids has, an' our wimmin too. Mebbe we
ain't same as other folks, them folks with their kerridges an' things
in cities, mebbe our kiddies ain't got no names by the Chu'ch, an' our
wimmin ain't no Chu'ch writin' fer sharin' our blankets, but we got a
right to live, cos we're made to live. An' by Gee! I'm goin' to live!
I tell youse folk right here, ther's cattle, an' ther's horses, an'
ther's grain in this dogone land, an' I'm goin' to git what I need of
'em ef I'm gettin' it at the end of a gun! That's me, fellers, an'
them as has the notion had best foller my trail."

The hungry eyes of the man shone in the dusk of the room. The harsh
lines of his weak face were desperate. Every word he said he meant,
and his whole protest was the just complaint of a man willing enough
to accept the battle as it came, but determined to save life itself by
any means to his hand.

It was Beasley who caught at the suggestion.

"You've grit, Ike, an' guess I'm with you at any game like that."

Buck waited for the others. He had no wish to persuade them to any
definite course. He had come there with definite instructions from the
Padre, and in his own time he would carry them out.

A youngster, who had hitherto taken no part in the talk, suddenly
lifted a pair of heavy eyes from the torn pages of a five-cent novel.

"Wal!" he cried abruptly. "Wot's the use o' gassin'? Let's light right
out. That's how we sed 'fore you come along, Buck." He paused, and a
sly grin slowly spread over his features. Then, lowering his voice to
a persuasive note, he went on, "Here, fellers, mebbe ther' ain't
more'n cents among us. Wal, I'd sure say we best pool 'em, an' I'll
set right out over to Bay Creek an' git whisky. I'll make it in four
hours. Then we'll hev jest one hell of a time to-night, an' up stakes
in the morning, fer--fer any old place out o' here. How's that?"

"Guess our few cents don't matter, anyways," agreed Curly, his dull
eyes brightening. "I'd say the Kid's right. I ain't lapped a sup o'
rye in months."

"It ain't bad fer Soapy," agreed Beasley. "Wot say, boys?"

He glanced round for approval and found it in every eye except
Slaney's. The bereaved father seemed utterly indifferent to anything
except his own thoughts, which were of the little waxen face he had
watched grow paler and paler in his arms only yesterday morning, until
he had laid the poor little dead body in hi