thought of the little man with
whom he was partners. But he seemed to freeze up again as the claim
passed, and the horses floundered over the heavy trail beside the
black, oily swamp beyond. It was bad driving here, and he steadied the
racing creatures down with voice and hand.

"Easy, Gipsy. Easy you, Pete. Now Maisie. So! Steady, boys. Easy!"

The harsh voice was hushed and gentle. He was speaking to creatures
that were not merely horses to him, but something nearer, perhaps even
dearer.

And the well-trained creatures responded at once, slowing to an easy
trot, a pace which they kept until the ford of the creek was reached.
Here they dropped to a walk as they splashed their way through the
turgid stream. But the moment the wheels of the cart topped the
opposite bank, they once more resumed their headlong gait.

At once the gambler sat up. He straightened his lean body as a man who
opens his lungs to breathe in deep draughts of fresh, bracing air. His
narrow eyes stared out aside of him and beyond. His nostrils expanded,
and his thin lips were tightly shut.

The camp was behind him. The trail, a hard, wide sand trail, lay
ahead. The wide, wild world was about him on every hand, reminding him
of days long gone by, reminding him that to-day his instincts were
still the same. The same fiery, militant spirit that had driven him
from one end of his country to the other still left him yearning for
the ruthless battle of wild places and wilder men. The long months of
inactivity, the long days of peace, the longer nights of his gambler's
craft, were for the moment gone. He was setting out, as in the old
days, surrounded by all in life he cared for, offering a challenge to
all the world, ready to grapple with whatsoever the gods of war might
choose to thrust in his way.

The man's spirits rose. The swift-flashing eyes brightened. His body
felt to be bursting with a ravishing joy of life. His purpose was his
own. The joy was his alone. He had found excuse for satisfying his
own greedy lust, a lust for battle which no overwhelming odds could
diminish. He was a savage. He knew it; he gloried in it. Peace to him
was a wearisome burden of which at all times he was ready to rid
himself. So he was born. So he had always lived. So, he knew, he would
die.

The trail rose with the upland. It rose with that gradation which so
wears down the ardor of almost any horse. But the creatures Wild Bill
was driving were made of unusual