"McLagan came in looking for him. Jim's only got the week old stuff.

The news. .h.i.t the ranch at sundown to-day."

Peter nodded.

"I see."

"You'll see more, Peter," broke in Smallbones viciously. "You'll see a vigilance committee right here, if this gambol don't quit. Barnriff don't stand for cattle-duffin' worth a cent."

"Upsets trade," lumbered Jake Wilkes, with the tail of his eye on the busy Smallbones.

Gay laughed ponderously.

"Smallbones'll show us how to form a corporation o' vigilantes. Though it ain't a finance job."

"Ay, that I will. I'm live anyways. I've had to do with 'em before."

"You didn't get hanged," protested Jake, after heavy thought. "Guess you ain't got no kick coming."

Smallbones purpled to the roots of his bristly hair. Jake irritated him to a degree, and the roar of laughter which greeted the slow-witted baker's sally set him completely on edge.

"Guess I was on the other end of the rope," he retorted, trying to turn the laugh, but the baker, with grave deliberation, added to his score.

"Which was a real mean trick o' fortune on us folks o' Barnriff," he murmured.

In the midst of the laughter Peter moved away to the tables. He looked on here and there watching the varying fortunes with all the interest of his intensely human mind. The weaknesses of human nature appealed to his kindly sympathy as they can only to those of large heart. He begrudged no man moments when the cares of everyday life might be pushed into the background, however they might be obtained.

He argued that the judgment of Nature needed no human condemnation added to it. Human penalty must be reserved for the administration of social laws. To his mind the broad road of evil would automatically claim its own without the augmentation of the loads of human freight borne thither on the dump-carts of the self-righteous. Rather it was his delight to hold out a hand to a poor soul in distress, even if his own ground were none too secure.

At one table he saw the winnings almost entirely in one corner, and the expressive yet grim faces of the other players only too plainly showed their feelings. He noticed the greedy manner in which the losers clutched up their cards at each fresh deal. Their hope was invincible, and he loved them for it. It may have been the hope such as a drowning man is credited with. It may have been the sportsman's instinct seeking a fresh turn in fortune's wheel. It may have been inspired by the malicious hope of the winner's downfall. But he felt it was healthy, in spite of the ethical p.r.o.nouncements of those who repose on the pedestal of their own virtues. It was, to his mind, the spirit of the fighter in the game of life, a spirit, which, even though misdirected, must never be unreservedly deplored. To his mind it were better to fight a battle, however wrong be the prompting instinct, than to run for the shelter of supine inept.i.tude.

He moved slowly round the room till he came to the table where Will Henderson was playing. He had reached his goal, and his self-imposed task had begun. His eyes quickly scanned the table and the faces of the five players. The other four were men he knew, not actually of the village, but hard-faced, lean ranchmen, men who came from heaven alone knew where, and whose earthly career was scarcely likely to bring about the final completion of the circle.

For the moment they mattered little. It was Will he was concerned with; nor was it with his fortunes in the game. The hand had just finished, and he saw one of the men rake in a small pot of "ante's"

without a challenge. While the fresh dealer was shuffling the cards he caught Will's eye. He read there the anxiety of a gambler whose luck is out. He glanced at his attenuated pile of chips, and took his opportunity.

"Feel like missing the deal, Will?" he asked casually.

But the set of the face lifted to him warned him of the negative which swiftly followed.

"Guess I'm not yearning."

Peter followed it up while the cards were being cut.

"I've got to speak to you _particular_."

A look of doubt suddenly leaped into Will's eyes, and he hesitated.

"What d'you want?"

Peter eyed the tumbler of whiskey at the man's elbow. He noted the heavy eyes in the good-looking young face. But the cards were dealt, and he waited for the finish of the hand. He saw Will bet, and lose on a "full-house." His pile was reduced to four fifty-cent chips and the man's language was full of venom at his opponent's luck. The moment he ceased speaking Peter began again.

"Your wife's hurt bad," he said. "Doc Crombie's only just left her."

Will started. He had forgotten. A sudden fear held him silent, while he waited for more. But no more was forthcoming. Only the blue eyes of his informant searched his face, and, to the guilty man, they seemed to be reading to the very depths of his soul. Something urged him, and he suddenly stood up.

"You best deal four hands," he said hastily to his companions. "I'll be back directly."

Then he moved away from the table unsteadily, and Peter made a guess at the quant.i.ty of bad whiskey he had consumed. He led the way from the tables, and, once clear of them, glanced over his shoulder.

"We best get outside," he said.

But Will was already regretting his game. The feeling of guilt was pa.s.sing. It had only been roused by the suddenness of Peter's announcement. A look of resentment accompanied his reply.

"I ain't going to miss more than a couple of hands," he protested.

"Then we best hurry."

Peter led the way through the crowd, and the two pa.s.sed out. With the glare and reek of the bar behind them he dropped abreast of Will, and walked him steadily in the direction of his own hut. At first Henderson failed to notice the intention; he was waiting for Peter to speak. He was waiting for the "particular" he had spoken of. Then, as it did not seem to be forthcoming, he promptly rebelled.

"You can tell me right here," he said, with distinct truculence, and coming to a dead standstill.

Peter reached out, and his powerful hand closed about the other's upper arm.

"What I've got to tell you can be told in my shack. You best come right on."

"Take your darned hand off me!" cried Will, angrily. "You'll tell me here, or I get back to my game." He tried to twist himself free. But Peter's hand tightened its hold.

"You're quitting that saloon for to-night, Will," he said quietly.

The other laughed, but he had a curiously uncomfortable feeling under his anger. Suddenly he put more exertion into his efforts to release himself, and his fury rose in proportion.

"Darn your soul, let me go!" he cried.

But Peter suddenly seized his wrist with his other hand, and it closed on it like a vice.

"Don't drive me to force," he warned. "That saloon is closed to you to-night. Do you understand? I've got to say things that'll likely change your way of thinking. Don't be a fool; come on up to my shack."

There was something so full of calm strength, so full of conviction in Peter's tone that it was not without its effect. That guilty thought rose again in Will's mind, and it weakened his power of resistance.

His rage was no less, but now there was something else with it, an undermining fear, and in a moment he ceased to struggle.

"All right," he said, and moved forward at the other's side.

Peter released his wrist, but kept his hold on his arm.

And they walked in silence to the "shack." Will had long known the gold prospector, and had become so accustomed to the mildness of his manner, as had all the village, that this sudden display of physical and moral force brought with it an awakening that had an unpleasant flavor. Then, too, his own thoughts were none too easy, and the picture of Eve as he had last seen her would obtrude itself, and created, if no gentler feeling, at least a guilty nervousness that sickened his stomach.

Peter said that Doc Crombie had only just left her. What did that mean? Only just left her, and--it had occurred nearly two hours ago.

He was troubled. But his trouble was in no way touched with either remorse or pity. He was thinking purely of himself.