His night was a mixture of wildness, outflamings of satire on the
virtues, witty defiance of the fates, and recklessness of everything
save reference to women. Not a word escaped his lips whereby his
keenest, most delighted listener could have probed to the heart of his
mood. To the loss of his claim was attributed all his pyrotechnics,
and no one, unless it was Rickart, was aware of the old proverbial
"woman in the case," who had planted the sting that stung.

Rickart, like a worried animal, following the footsteps of his master,
sought vainly all night to head Van off and quiet him down in bed. At
two in the morning, at McCoppet's gambling hall, where Van perhaps
expected to encounter the jumpers of his claim, the little cashier
succeeded at last in commanding Van's attention. Van had a glass of
stuff in his hand--stuff too strong to be scathed by all the pure food
enactments in the world.

"Look here, boy," said Rickart, clutching the horseman's wrist in his
hand, "do you know that Gettysburg, and Nap, and Dave are camping on
the desert, waiting for you to come home?"

Van looked at him steadily. He was far from being dizzied in his
brain. Since the blow received at the hands of Beth had not sufficed
to make him utterly witless, then nothing drinkable could overcome his
reason.

"_Home_?" he said. "Waiting for me to come _home_."

Suddenly wrenching his hand from Rickart's grip he hurled the glass of
liquor with all his might against the mirror of the bar. The crash
rose high above the din of human voices. A radiating star was abruptly
created in the firmament of glass, and Van was starting for the door.

The barkeeper scarcely turned his head. He was serving half a dozen
men, and he said: "Gents, what's your poison?"

A crowd of half-intoxicated revelers started for Van and attempted to
haul him back. He flung them off like a lot of pestiferous puppies,
and cleared the door.

He went straight to the hay-yard, saddled his horse, and headed up over
the mountains. He had eaten no dinner; he wanted none. The fresh,
clean air began its work of restoration.

It was daylight when he reached the camp his partners had made on the
desert. Napoleon and Gettysburg were drunk. Discouraged by his long
delay, homeless, and utterly disheartened, they had readily succumbed
to the conveniently bottled sympathy of friends.

No sooner had the horseman alighted at the camp than Napoleon flung
himself upon hi