chair and gave himself up to passionate
thought. For two hours he sat there raging, half mad with his hideous
feelings against James. But as the long hours slipped away he slowly
calmed. His hatred remained for the man, but he kept it out of his
silent struggle with himself. In spite of his first heated decision he
was torn by a guiding instinct that left him faltering. He realized
that his hatred of the man, and nothing else, was really responsible
for his negative attitude. And this was surely wrong. What he must
really consider was the welfare of Vada, and--Jessie. The whole thing
was so difficult, so utterly beyond him. He was drawn this way and
that, struggling with a brain that he knew to be incompetent. But in
the end it was again his heart that was victorious. Again his heart
would take no denial.

Confused, weary, utterly at a loss to finally decide, he drew out
Jessie's letter again. He read it. And like a cloud his confusion
dispersed and his mind became clear. His hatred of James was thrust
once more into the background. Jessie's salvation depended on Vada's
going. Vada must go.

He sighed as he rose from his chair and blew out the lamp.

"Maybe I'm wrong," he murmured, passing into the bedroom. "Maybe.
Well, I guess God'll have to judge me, and--He knows."

CHAPTER XVIII

ON THE ROAD

Wild Bill had many things to think of on his way back to Suffering
Creek. He was a tremendously alert-minded man at all times, so
alert-minded that at no time was he given to vain imaginings, and to
be alone for long together chafed and irritated him to a degree. His
life was something more than practicality; it was vigor in an extreme
sense. He must be doing; he must be going ahead. And it mattered very
little to him whether he was using vigor of mind or body. Just now he
was using the former to a purpose. Possibilities and scheming flashed
through his head in such swift succession as to be enough to dazzle a
man of lesser mental caliber.

The expressed object of his visit to Spawn City was only one of
several purposes he had in hand. And though he turned up at the
principal hotel at the psychological moment when he could drop into
the big game of poker he had promised himself, and though at that game
he helped himself, with all the calm amiability in the world, to
several thousand dollars of the "rich guys'" money, the rest of his
visit to the silver city was spent in moving about amongst the lower
haunts