ry brought no poignant pain, no stabbing agony of a fresh
heart-wound; but worse--the dull, deep, soul-hurt of annihilation; the
hurt that damns men's lives.

He smiled with bitter cynicism as his thoughts dwelt upon the little
love of women, the shifting love, that rests but lightly on the heart,
to change with the changing moon. And upon the constancy of such love
he had dared to build his future!

"Fool!" he cried, and laughed aloud, a short, hard laugh--the laugh
that makes God frown. From the water-pail at his side he drew the
long-handled dipper and removed the cork from the jug and tilted the
jug, and watched the red liquor splash noisily from its wide mouth.

From that moment he would play a man's game; would smash Moncrossen and
his bird's-eye men; would learn logs and run camps, and among the big
men of the rough places would win to the fore by the very force and
abandon of him.

He had beaten the whisky game; had demonstrated his ability to best
John Barleycorn on his own terms and in his own fastnesses.

And now he would drink whisky--much whisky or little whisky as he saw
fit, for there was none to gainsay him--and in his life henceforth no
woman could cause him pain.

He raised the dipper to his lips, and the next instant it rang upon the
floor, and over the whole front of him splashed the raw liquor, and in
his nostrils was the fume and reek of it.

Unmindful of his injury, he leaped to his feet and turned to face Daddy
Dunnigan, who was returning his crutch to his armpit.

"Toimes Oi've yanked Captain Fronte from th' road av harm," the old man
was saying, and the red-rimmed, rheumy eyes shone bright; "wanst from
in front av a char-rge av the hillmen an' wanst beyant Khybar. But Oi'm
thinkin' niver befoor was Oi closter to th' roight place at th' roight
toime thin a minit agone.

"Whisky is made to be dhrank fer a pastime av enj'ymint--not alone--wid
a laugh loike that. Ye've got th' crayther on th' run, but ye must give
no quarter. Battles is won not in th' thruse, but in th' foightin'.

"No McKim iver yit raised th' white flag, an' none iver died wid his
back to th' front. Set ye down, lad, an' think it over."

He finished speaking and hobbled toward the door, and, passing out,
closed it behind him. Alone in the bunk-house Bill Carmody turned again
to the jug and fitted the cork to its mouth, and with his crutch pushed
it under the edge of Fallon's bunk.

Hours later, when the men stamped