idly. He had
completed two successive nights of "sentry-go" over Scipio's twins,
never reaching his blankets until well after sun-up.

For some minutes he enjoyed the delicious idleness of a still brain.
Then, at last, it stirred to an activity which once again set flowing
all the busy thought of his long night's vigil. Further rest became
impossible to a man of his temperament, and he sprang from his
blankets and plunged his face into a bucket of fresh water which stood
on an adjacent bench. In five minutes he was ready for the business of
the day.

It was to be a day of activity. He felt that. Yet he had made no
definite plans. Only all his thoughts of the previous night warned him
that something must be done, and that it was "up to him to get busy."

A long wakeful night is apt to distort many things of paramount
interest. But the morning light generally reduces them to their proper
focus. Thus it is with people who are considered temperamental. But
Bill had no such claims. He was hard, unimaginative, and of keen
decision. And overnight he had arrived at one considerable decision.
How he had arrived at it he hardly knew. Perhaps it was one of those
decisions that cannot be helped. Certain it was that it had been
arrived at through no definite course of reasoning. It had simply
occurred to him and received his approval at once. An approval, which,
once given, was rarely, if ever, rescinded. This was the man.

He had first thought a great deal about Scipio. He felt that the time
had come when his fate must be closely inquired into. The blundering
efforts of Sunny Oak were so hopelessly inadequate in the care of the
children, that only the return of their father could save them from
some dire domestic catastrophe.

Sunny apparently meant well by them. But Bill hated well-meaning
people who disguised their incompetence under the excellence of their
intentions. Besides, in this case it was so useless. These two
children were a nuisance, he admitted, but they must not be allowed to
suffer through Sunny's incompetence. No, their father must be found.

Then there was his mare, Gipsy; and when he thought of her he went hot
with an alarm which no threat to himself could have inspired. This
turn of thought brought James into his focus. That personage was
rarely far from it, and he needed very little prompting to bring the
outlaw into the full glare of his mental limelight. He hated James. He
had seen him rarely, and spok