"But I am," he protested, with passion. "I used to do things. But
since--since I've met you I've lost my nerve. I'm crazy for you. You
let the other men run after you. Some of them aren't fit to--to--Oh,
I'm sick all the time! Now it's longing and then it's jealousy. Give
me a chance, Joan."

"Why?" she queried, coldly. "Why should I? You're shiftless. You
won't work. When you do find a little gold you squander it. You have
nothing but a gun. You can't do anything but shoot."

"Maybe that'll come in handy," he said, lightly.

"Jim Cleve, you haven't it in you even to be BAD," she went on,
stingingly.

At that he made a violent gesture. Then he loomed over her. "Joan
Handle, do you mean that?" he asked.

"I surely do," she responded. At last she had struck fire from him.
The fact was interesting. It lessened her anger.

"Then I'm so low, so worthless, so spineless that I can't even be
bad?"

"Yes, you are."

"That's what you think of me--after I've ruined myself for love of
you?"