en to him perhaps only a dozen times,
when he first appeared on Suffering Creek. But he hated him as though
he were his most bitter personal enemy.

He had no reason to offer for this hatred, beyond the outlaw's known
depredations and the constant threat of his presence in the district.
At least no reason he would have admitted publicly. But then Wild Bill
was not a man to bother with reasons much at any time. And it was the
venomous hatred of the man which now drove him to a decision of the
first importance. And such was his satisfaction in the interest of his
decision, that, for the time being, at least, poker was robbed of its
charm, faro had become a game of no consequence whatever, and gambling
generally, with all its subtleties as he understood them, was no
longer worth while. He had decided upon a game with a higher stake
than any United States currency could afford. It was a game of life
and death. James, "Lord" James, as he contemptuously declared, must
go. There was no room for him in the same district as Wild Bill of
Abilene.

It would be useless to seek the method by which this decision was
reached. In a man such as Bill the subtleties of his motives were far
too involved and deeply hidden. The only possible chance of estimating
the truth would be to question his associates as to their opinion. And
even then such opinions would be biased by personal understanding of
the man, and so would be of but small account.

Thus Minky would probably have declared that his decision was the
result of his desire for the welfare of the community in which he
claimed his best friends. Sandy Joyce would likely have shaken his
head, and declared it was the possibility of something having happened
to his mare Gipsy. Toby Jenks might have had a wild idea that Bill had
made his "pile" on the "crook" and was "gettin' religion." Sunny Oak,
whose shrewd mind spent most of its time in studying the peculiarities
of his fellows, might have whispered an opinion to himself, when no
one was about, to the effect that Bill couldn't stand for a rival
"boss" around Suffering Creek.

Any of these opinions might have been right, just as any of them might
have been very wide of the mark. Anyhow, certain it is that no citizen
of Suffering Creek would, even when thoroughly drunk, have accused
Bill of any leaning towards sentimentalism or chivalry. The idea that
he cared two cents for what became of Scipio, or his wife, or his
children, it wou