pired by a subtler mind, to disguise the
real source whence they sprang.

The gambler was truly a firebrand, and so well did he handle his
people, so well did he stir them by his disgust and righteous horror
at the employment of a sheriff in their midst, that by nine o'clock
the camp was loud in its clamor for retribution to be visited upon
those who had brought such a terror into their midst.

Beasley's amiability grew. His bartender watched it in amazement. But
it oppressed him. His pessimism resented it. He hated joy, and the
evidences of joy in others. There was real pleasure for him in Diamond
Jack's hectoring denunciations. It was something which appealed to
him. Besides, he could see the gambler was harassed, perhaps afraid of
the sheriff himself. He even envied him his fear. But Beasley's
satisfaction was depressing, and, as a protest, he neglected to
overcharge the more drunken of their customers. Beasley must not have
all the satisfaction.

But, as far as Beasley was concerned, the bartender was little better
than a piece of furniture that night. His employer had almost
forgotten his existence. Truth to tell, Beasley had lost his head in
his disease of venom. One thought, and one thought only urged him.
To-night, before the advent of the sheriff to seize upon the person of
the hated Padre, he hoped, by one stroke, to crush the heart of Buck,
and bow the proud head of the girl who had so plainly showed her
dislike and contempt for him, in the dust of shame and despair.

It was a moment worth waiting for. It was a moment of joy he would not
lightly forego. Nor did he care what time, patience, or money it cost
him. To strike at those whom he hated was as the breath of life to
him. And he meant to drink deeply of his cup of joy.

His moment came. It came swiftly, suddenly, like most matters of great
import. His opportunity came at the psychological moment, when the
last shred of temperance had been torn from wild, lawless hearts,
which, in such moments, were little better than those of savage
beasts. It came when the poison of complaint and bitterness had at
last searched out the inmost recesses of stunted, brutalized minds.
And Beasley snatched at it hungrily, like a worm-ridden dog will
snatch at the filthiest offal.

The drunken voice of Abe Allinson lifted above the general din. He was
lolling against one end of the counter, isolated from his fellows by
reason of his utterly stupefied condition. He was