man, and he
went on harshly. "It was a fair fight and no favor. I love you, Eve;
God knows how I love you. And I wouldn't give you up or lose you for
fifty Jims. If Jim stood in the way between us I'd--I'd--push him out
at--any cost."

"Will!" There was horror in the girl's exclamation. Then the woman in
her rose at the contemplation of the man's love and passion for her.
How could it be otherwise? She came to him, and was hugged in arms
that almost set her gasping.

"I love you, Eve. I love you! I love you!"

Their lips met, and the woman clung to him in the rush of her
responsive passion.

"Oh, Will," she cried at length. "It's good to be loved as you love.
It's so good. Kiss me, dear, kiss me again. I am all yours."

The man needed no bidding. He had wronged his friend; had lied, lied
in the worst way a man can lie, to make sure of her. He appreciated
the cost, and its value made those moments all the more precious.

But he had no real regret for the wrong he had committed. And this was
an unerring index to his nature. He would stand at nothing where his
own desires were at stake.

CHAPTER VII

THE CHICKEN-KILLING

An hour later Will left the house. He felt good. He felt that he
wanted to shout aloud his good fortune. To a temperament like his
there was only one outlet to such feelings. He would go down to the
saloon and treat the boys. They should share in his good fortune--to
the extent of drink. He cared nothing for them in reality. He cared
nothing for anybody but himself. He wanted drink, and to treat the
boys served as an excuse.

Since winning Eve he had debated with himself the matter of
"straightening up" with regard to drink. It is the usual condition of
mind upon such occasions amongst men who live hard. It is an upward
moral tendency for the moment, and often the highest inclination of
their life's moral switchback, the one that inevitably precedes the
longest and severest drop. At no other time would he have needed an
excuse to drink.

He hurried so as not to lose anything of the evening's entertainment
at the saloon, but his way did not take him direct. He had left the
bulk of his money secreted in the cupboard in his old hut, a place he
still kept in which to sleep when business or pleasure brought him in
from the hunting-grounds of the trade which was his.

But the deviation was considerable, nor had he the assistance of any
outside influence to keep his mind in focus. Thus h