was now, and I thought of this habit
when I found him asleep with his
revolver, and I got hope from it now,
when the dreaded combination (whatever
that was) seemed actually to have come.

I could see now that he got worse
daily. He stopped his mockeries, his
occasional fits of reckless gayety. He
stopped poker--resolutely--he couldn't
afford to lose now; and, what puzzled me,
he stopped drinking. The man simply
looked tired, always hopelessly tired;
and I could believe him sincere in all
his foolish talk about his blessed Nirvana:
which was the peace he craved,
which was end enough for him.

Winter broke. May drew near; and
one afternoon, when Grayson and I took
our walk up through the Gap, he carried
along a huge spy-glass of mine, which
had belonged to a famous old desperado,
who watched his enemies with it from the
mountain-tops. We both helped capture
him, and I defended him. He was
sentenced to hang--the glass was my fee.
We sat down opposite Bee Rock, and
for the first time Grayson told me of
that last scene with her. He spoke