's that gal! She's a Jonah, a Hoodoo to us all--to this
place. She's got rotten luck all over her--and you brought her here.
You needn't try an' sling mud at me fer handing them the rot-gut the
boys ask for. Get that woman out of the place and things'll level up
right away."

The man's rudeness still seemed to have no effect.

"But all this doesn't seem to fit in with--with this affair to-night,"
the Padre argued. "You said it began, you thought, over the four women
you allow in here."

Beasley was being steadily drawn without knowing it. His swift-rising
spleen led him farther into the trap.

"So it did," he snapped. Then he laughed mirthlessly. "Y' see some one
suggested those gals pay a 'party' call on your Golden Woman," he said
with elaborate sarcasm. "And it was because Mr. Curly Saunders sort o'
fancies he's got some sort of right to that lady he butted in and shot
up the Kid."

"Who suggested it?" asked the other quickly, his mild gray eyes
hardening.

"Why, the Kid."

The Padre looked the saloon-keeper squarely in the eye.

"And who put it into that foolish boy's head?" he asked slowly.

Beasley's face purpled with rage.

"You needn't to put things that way with me," he cried. "If you got
things to say, say 'em right out. You reckon I was the man who
suggested----"

"I do."

The Padre's eyes were wide open. The hard gray gleam literally bored
into the other's heated face. He stood up, his whole body rigid with
purpose.

"I say right here that you were responsible for it all. The Kid wasn't
capable of inventing such a dirty trick on a decent girl. He was
sufficiently drunk to be influenced by you, and, but for Curly's
timely interference, you would doubtless have had your rotten way. I
tell you the trouble, whatever trouble happens in this camp, is
trouble which you are directly or indirectly responsible for. These
men, in their sober senses, are harmless. Give them the poison you
charge extortionately for and they are ready to do anything. I warn
you, Beasley, to be careful what you do--be damned careful. There are
ways of beating you, and, by thunder! I'll beat you at your own game!
Good-night!"

The Padre turned and walked out, leaving the discomfited storekeeper
speechless with rage, his narrow eyes glaring after him.

Moreton Kenyon was never a man to allow an impulse of anger to get the
better of him. All that he had said to Beasley he had made up his mind
to say before starting for t