owing under these
blows which had been so liberally dealt him. Where was the use in
struggling? he began to ask himself. And the poison of the thought
acted like a sedative. He grew strangely calm; he almost experienced
pleasure and comfort under its influence. Why struggle? Nothing could
go right with him. Nothing. He was cursed--cursed with an ill-starred
fortune. This sort of thing was his fate. Fate. That was it. Why
struggle against it?

He had but this one short life to live. He would live it. He would
live it in the way he chose, without regard to the ethics of
civilization. What mattered if he shortened it by years, or if he
lived to what might be looked upon as an honored old age? And what
was there afterward? He even began to doubt if there was anything
before--if there was any just---- He paused and shivered as the
thought came to him. And he was glad he paused. To question the Deity
was to rank himself at once with a sect he had always despised as
self-centred fools, and pitied them as purblind creatures who were
in some degree mentally deficient.

He pulled himself together and returned to the bar.

"Give me another whiskey," he demanded.

But Silas Rocket had not forgotten; he rarely ever did forget things
in the nature of rudeness.

"I'd hate to," he said quickly; "but I guess I'll sell you 'most
anything."

Jim accepted the snub silently, drank his whiskey, paid for it, and
went out.

Rocket looked after him. His eyes were unfriendly, but then they were
generally unfriendly. As the doors swung to behind his customer he
turned and looked in through the doorway behind him.

"Ma!" he cried, "Jim Thorpe's been in. He's had four drinks o'
whiskey, and took a bottle with him. He's been thinkin' a whole heap,
too. Guess he's goin' on a sky-high drunk."

And a shrewish voice called back to him in a tone of feminine spleen.

"Guess it's that Marsham gal," it said conclusively.

A woman's instinct is a wonderful thing.

Meanwhile Jim was riding across the market-place. Half-way across he
saw Smallbones. He hailed him, and the little man promptly hurried up
to his horse's side.

Jim knew that Smallbones disliked him. But just now he was only
seeking ordinary information.

"Where'll I find Restless?" he inquired. "Where's he working?"

"Guess I see him over by Peter Blunt's shack. Him an' Peter wus
gassin' together, while you wus up ther' seein' Eve Marsham,"
Smallbones replied meaningly. "I 'lo