match to the lantern he thought of his wife again, and his face
regained its scowl.

Only when he had his great heavy team in the yard, his lantern
hanging from his arm, the reins in his hands, and was pulling
back with all his strength as he followed the horses--only then
did he permit himself to think about the tragedy that had
befallen.

"He's dead--killed," he groaned. "It had to come. Shot-firers
don't last long. Whoa, there, Lottie; not so fast, Jet, whoa!"
His protesting team in control again, he trudged heavily behind.
"It's terrible to die that way--not a chance in a thousand. And a
kid of sixteen didn't have the judgment --couldn't have. But Bill
knew what he was facing every evening. He didn't go in blindly.
They'll blame me, as though it was my fault. I didn't want him to
go there. I wanted him to take a hand here, to run the place by
himself in good time. It was his mother who sent him away first."
He went on like that, justifying himself more positively as
excuse after excuse suggested itself.

Not until he had convinced himself that he was in no way
responsible, did he allow his heart to beat a little for this boy
of his. "Poor Bill," he thought on, "it has been a tough game for
him. Lost in the shuffle. Born into something he didn't like and
trying to escape, only to get caught. What did he expect out of
life, anyway? Why didn't he learn that it's only a lot of
senseless pain? Every moment of it pain--from coming into the
world to going out. Oh, Bill, why didn't you learn what I know?
You had brains, boy, but it would have been better if you had