than any beast of the jungle. For the time, Blair's alcohol-saturated
brain evolved but one chain of thought, was capable of but one
emotion--hate. Every object in the universe, from its Creator to
himself, fell under the ban. The language of hate is curses; and as he
moved out over the prairie there dripped from his lips continuously,
monotonously, a trickling, blighting stream of malediction. Swaying,
stumbling, unconscious of his physical motions, instinct kept him upon
the trail; a Providence, sometimes kindest to those least worthy,
preserved him from injury.

Half way out he met a solitary Indian astride a faded-looking mustang,
and the current of his wrath was temporarily diverted by a surly "How!"
Even this measure of friendliness was regretted when the big revolver
came out of the rancher's holster like a flash, and, head low on the
neck of the mustang, heels in the little beast's ribs, the aborigine
retreated with a yell, amid a shower of ill-aimed bullets. Long after
the figure on the pony had passed out of range, Blair stood pulling at
the trigger of the empty repeater and cursing louder than before because
it would not "pop."

Two hours later, when it was past noon, an uncertain hand lifted the
wooden latch of the Big B Ranch-house door, and, heralded by an inrush
of cold outside air, Tom Blair, master and dictator, entered his domain.
The passage of time, the physical exercise, and the prairie air, had
somewhat cleared his brain. Just within the room, he paused and looked
about him with surprise. With premonition of impending trouble, the
mongrel bristled the yellow hair of his neck, and, retreating to the
mouth of his kennel, stood guard; but otherwise the scene was to a
detail as it had been in the morning. The woman lay passive within the
bunk. The child by her side, holding her hand, did not turn. The very