that," retorted Tresler, impatiently. "It's something else I
want to know."

He looked at the butcher, who only laughed. He turned on the
saloon-keeper, who shook his head. Finally he applied to Shaky.

"Wal," the carpenter began, with a ponderous air of weighing his
words. "I ain't the man to judge a feller offhand like. I 'lows I know
suthin' o' the blind man o' Skitter Bend, seein' I wus workin'
contract fer him all last summer. An' wot I knows is--nasty. I've
see'd things on that ranch as made me git a tight grip on my axe, an'
long a'mighty hard to bust a few heads in. I've see'd that all-fired
Jake Harnach, the foreman, hammer hell out o' some o' the hands, wi'
tha' blind man standin' by jest as though his gummy eyes could see
what was doin', and I've watched his ugly face workin' wi' every blow
as Jake pounded, 'cos o' the pleasure it give him. I've see'd some o'
those fellers wilter right down an' grovel like yaller dorgs at their
master's feet. I've see'd that butcher-lovin' lot handle their hosses
an' steers like so much dead meat--an' wuss'n. I've see'd hell around
that ranch. 'An' why for,' you asks, 'do their punchers an' hands
stand it?' ''Cos,' I answers quick, 'ther' ain't a job on this
countryside fer 'em after Julian Marbolt's done with 'em.' That's why.
'Wher' wus you workin' around before?' asks a foreman. 'Skitter Bend,'
says the puncher. 'Ain't got nothin' fer you,' says the foreman
quick; 'guess this ain't no butcherin' bizness!' An' that's jest how
it is right thro' with Skitter Bend," Shaky finished up, drenching the
spittoon against the bar with consummate accuracy.

"Right--dead right," said Twirly, with a laugh.

"Guess, mebbe, you're prejudiced some," suggested Carney, with an eye
on his visitor.

"Shaky's taken to book readin'," said Slum, gently. "Guess dime
fiction gits a powerful holt on some folk."

"Dime fiction y'rself," retorted Shaky, sullenly. "Mebbe young Dave
Steele as come back from ther' with a hole in his head that left him
plumb crazy ever since till he died, 'cos o' some racket he had wi'
Jake--mebbe that's out of a dime fiction. Say, you git right to it,
an' kep on sousin' whisky, Slum Ranks. You ken do that--you can't tell
me 'bout the blind man."

A pause in the conversation followed while Ike dried some glasses. The
room was getting dark. It was a cheerless den. Tresler was
thoughtfully smoking. He was digesting and sifting what he had heard;
trying to separate