ed here and I'll die here."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Steele responded. "Afraid you may become
sick and die for lack of care."

"No. I'll remain, my son."

That was conclusive. It was the answer of not only thirty years of
living at the spot, but of his secret dread. Steele saw once more the
stark fear in his eyes, the fear of contact with men, of venturing out
into the world, of precipitating fate.

For a time his father plucked his white unkempt beard with unsteady
hand.

"Where's the place you're going this time?" he presently inquired,
without real interest.

"New Mexico."

On the elder's face appeared suddenly a gray shadow as if the blood
were ebbing from his heart.

"Where in New Mexico?" he whispered.

"The town of San Mateo."

His father struggled to his feet. With one hand he clutched the
doorframe for support. The skin of his cheeks had gone a sickly
white.

"San Mateo--San Mateo!" he gasped. "Not there, not there, Steele! Keep
away, keep away, keep away! My God, not San Mateo--you!"

He swayed as if about to fall full length, gesturing blindly before
his face as if to sweep away the thought, while his son ran towards
him.

"Father, you're sick," Steele exclaimed, putting an arm about the
other. And, in truth, the elder man seemed fainting, ready to
collapse. "Come, let me help you in so you can lie down. I must bring
a doctor."

Steele almost carried him to the bed. On it his father sank, remaining
with closed eyes and scarcely breathing.

"No doctor; bring no doctor," he said painfully, at last. "I feel--I
feel as if dying."

"I must bring a doctor. And I have a flask of whiskey; let me pour you
a little to revive your heart."

The change the words wrought from passivity to action was startling.
The elder Weir arose suddenly on elbow, glaring fiercely.

"Whiskey, never! It brought me to this, it damned my life. If it had
not been for whiskey----" Without finishing the words he fell back on
the bed.

The loathing, the hatred, the utter horror of his exclamation,
banished from his son's mind further thought of using this stimulant.

"But the doctor?" he inquired, gently.

"No use, Steele. I've been the same as a dead man for days. Just
ashes. I want to die; I want to lie by your mother there under the big
pine. And maybe I'll have peace--peace."

Steele took in his own the wasted hand hanging from the bed. He held
it tight, with a feeling of infinite tragedy.

"You'll be