an American penitentiary can show you. It's seven years since you hurt
him. But that ain't a circumstance. If it takes him seventy-seven he'll
never quit your trail."

Bat paused, and, for a moment, turned from the wide black eyes he had
held seemingly fascinated while he was talking. It almost seemed that
the emotions stirring in his broad bosom were too overpowering for him,
and he needed respite from their pressure. But he came again. He was
bound to. It was his nature to drive to the end at whatever cost to
himself.

"I'm handing you this stuff, Les, because I got to," he went on. "It
ain't because I'm liking it. No, sir. And if you've the horse sense I
reckon you have, you'll locate my object easy. Those words of Nisson's
have told us plain we got to fight. We got to fight like hell. And the
time's right now. Oh, yes, we're going to fight. You an' me, just the
same as we've fought a heap of times before. There ain't a feller I know
who's got more fight in him than you--when you feel that way.
But--well, say, you just need a boost to make you feel like it. You
ain't like me who wants to fight most all the time. No. Well--I'm going
to hand you that boost."

"How?"

Standing's unruffled interrogation was in sharp contrast with the
other's earnestness. There was a calm tolerance in it. The tolerance of
a temperament given to philosophy rather than passion. Perhaps it was a
mask. Perhaps it was real. Whatever it was, Bat's next words sent the
hot fire of a man's soul leaping into his eyes.