in his
seat, his hand holding his reins loosely in his lap.

"That wher' your prospect is?" he inquired casually.

Scipio nodded. He could not bring himself to frame any further
aggravation of the lie.

"Wher' did you hear of the prospect?" Bill demanded shrewdly.

"I--"

But little Vada broke in. Her interest had been diverted by the word
prospect.

"Wot's 'prospect'?" she demanded.

Bill laughed without any change of expression.

"Prospect is wher' you _expect_ to find gold," he explained
carefully.

The child's eyes widened, and she was about to speak. Then she
hesitated, but finally she proceeded.

"That ain't wot we're goin' for," she said simply. "Poppa's goin' to
take me wher' momma is. I'm goin' to momma, an' she's ever so far
away. Pop told me. Jamie's goin' to stay with him, an' I'm goin' to
stay with momma, an'--an'--I want Jamie to come too." Tears suddenly
crowded her eyes, and slowly rolled down her sunburned cheeks.

Just for a moment neither man spoke. Bill's fierce eyes were curiously
alight, and they were sternly fixed on the averted face of the father.
At last Scipio turned towards him; and with his first words he showed
his relief that further lying was out of the question.

"I forgot--somehow--she knew. Y'see--"

But Bill, who had just bitten off a fresh chew of tobacco, gave him no
chance to continue.

"Say," he interrupted him, "ther's lies I hate, an' ther's lies that
don't make no odds. You've lied in a way I hate. You've lied 'cos you
had to lie, knowin' you was doin' wrong. If you hadn't know'd you was
doin' wrong you wouldn't have needed to lie--sure. Say, you're not
only handin' over that kiddie to her mother, you're handin' her over
to that feller. Now, get to it an' tell me things. An'--you needn't to
lie any."

Scipio hung his head. These words coming from Wild Bill suddenly put
an entirely different aspect upon his action. He saw something of the
horror he was committing as Bill saw it. He was seeing through another
man's eyes now, where before he had only seen through his own simple
heart, torn by the emotions his Jessie's letter had inspired.

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out his wife's letter. He looked at
it, holding it a moment, his whole heart in his eyes. Then he reached
out and passed it to the gambler.

"She's got to have her," he said, with a touch of his native obstinacy
and conviction. "She's her mother. I haven't a right to keep her.
I--"

But