the sun had
rolled upward above the flat horizon. Already the desert heat had
leaped out at them. A dozen men climbed upon Ben's wagon, thinking to
go to Valley City with him to get water there. But he drove them back,
threatening them with his big fists and cockney oaths, and they
dropped down and watched him as the wagon, rocking and swaying and
lurching, was drawn away from them by galloping horses.

At a sharp word from Conniston two of the men brought the broken
barrel which had contained whisky to where the discarded revolvers lay
glinting in the early light and tossed them into it. And then Brayley
came.

"What's up, Con?" he asked, swinging down from his panting horse, his
keen eyes taking in the fading excitement, the general idleness. And
then, as he stooped forward and looked into the barrel: "Good heavens!
What _is_ the matter?"

In a few words Conniston told him. For a moment Brayley said nothing,
shaking his head and eying him curiously.

"You sure got your nerve, Con," he said, simply, after a minute.

Conniston laughed shakily. Again a sinking nausea made him faint and
dizzy. He could remember now the way the nose of his revolver had sunk
into the Chinaman's stomach, could see again all of the horror of the
thing which he had done.

"I'm sick, Brayley," he said, unsteadily. "The thing will drive me
mad. I--I had to kill a man--and I can't forget how he looked!"

"How you managed to stop 'em jest killing _one_ gets me. Where is he?"

Conniston nodded to the wagon and turned away shuddering. The Half
Moon foreman strode over to the wagon and looked closely at the limp
body. And then he came to Conniston with long strides.

"Hell," he grunted, disgustedly. "I thought you said you'd killed a
man! That's only a Chink!"

CHAPTER XIX

The few barefooted, tattered urchins of Valley City had scampered
homeward through the quiet street, swept along upon the high tide of
glee. Bat Truxton had got drunk again; Mr. Crawford had fired him;
Miss Jocelyn had gone away with him to Crawfordsville; there was every
reason for their glad optimism to see a long vacation before them.
What was the importance of reclamation somewhere off in the misty
future when vacation, unexpected and thence all the more delectable,
smiled upon them now?

"Mr. Crawford has been just as mean to poor papa as he could be," Miss
Jocelyn had confided to them, in tear-dampened scornfulness. "Papa
doesn't want me to teach, an