est of the night when he made the thicket which inclosed his old
camp. Here he turned the burro loose in the grass near the spring, and
then lay down on his old bed of leaves.

He felt only vaguely, as outside things, the ache and burn and throb
of the muscles of his body. But a dammed-up torrent of emotion at last
burst its bounds, and the hour that saw his release from immediate
action was one that confounded him in the reaction of his spirit. He
suffered without understanding why. He caught glimpses into himself,
into unlit darkness of soul. The fire that had blistered him and the
cold which had frozen him now united in one torturing possession of his
mind and heart, and like a fiery steed with ice-shod feet, ranged his
being, ran rioting through his blood, trampling the resurging good,
dragging ever at the evil.

Out of the subsiding chaos came a clear question. What had happened?
He had left the valley to go to Cottonwoods. Why? It seemed that he had
gone to kill a man--Oldring! The name riveted his consciousness upon the
one man of all men upon earth whom he had wanted to meet. He had met the
rustler. Venters recalled the smoky haze of the saloon, the dark-visaged
men, the huge Oldring. He saw him step out of the door, a splendid
specimen of manhood, a handsome giant with purple-black and sweeping
beard. He remembered inquisitive gaze of falcon eyes. He heard himself
repeating: "OLDRING, BESS IS ALIVE! BUT SHE'S DEAD TO YOU," and he felt
himself jerk, and his ears throbbed to the thunder of a gun, and he
saw the giant sink slowly to his knees. Was that only the vitality
of him--that awful light in the eyes--only the hard-dying life of
a tremendously powerful brute? A broken whisper, strange as death:
"MAN--WHY--DIDN'T--YOU WAIT! BESS--WAS--" And Oldring plunged face
forward, dead.

"I killed him," cried Venters, in remembering shock. "But it wasn't
THAT. Ah, the look in his eyes and his whisper!"

Herein lay the secret that had clamored to him through all the tumult
and stress of his emotions. What a look in the eyes of a man shot
through the heart! It had been neither hate nor ferocity nor fear of
men nor fear of death. It had been no passionate glinting spirit of a
fearless foe, willing shot for shot, life for life, but lacking physical
power. Distinctly recalled now, never to be forgotten, Venters saw
in Oldring's magnificent eyes the rolling of great, glad
surprise--softness--love! Then came a shadow and t