Scot said nothing. Not for an instant did his unwavering eyes release the man till the door had shut behind him. Then, quickly, disregarding the hands of congratulation thrust at him, he pushed through the crowd and passed from the rear of the building. He had no intention of letting himself be a target for a shot through the window. The discredited killer did not leave by stage. He went out in a private buckboard to Carson, from whence he drifted to the new camp Aurora, already the largest town in that section of Nevada. His self-esteem and public repute, shaken by the showdown in the hurdy-gurdy house, were shortly restored by a rencontre with another bad man. He shot his victim in the stomach while they were drinking together, after which he was cock of the walk at Aurora. CHAPTER IX SCOT TALKS ON MOTHER LOVE The weeks passed, became months. Spring browned to summer and summer crisped to autumn. Hugh and Scot saw nothing of each other. The younger brother had given up riding and joined a gold rush to a new camp; the older was still dealing faro at the Crystal Palace. The Dodsons were yet camped on the outskirts of Virginia. The man of the family spent most of his time hanging around saloons and dance halls. Rarely he did a day’s work. Usually he secured food and drink for himself by acting as janitor at some of the places which he frequented. For weeks at a time his wife never saw him. Scot McClintock no longer visited the dugout beside the prairie schooner. The last time he had seen Mollie Dodson was the day when he had thrashed the bully to whom she was married. He did his kindnesses by proxy now. The missionary from Buffalo, New York, Calvin Baird by name, was his deputy in supplying the needs of the Dodson family. Sometimes Vicky reported to him, but he saw very little even of her. Then, one day, Vicky came to him at the International Hotel, where he lived, and sent up word that she wanted to see him. Scot came down and found the face of his little friend wan and tear-stained. “What’s wrong, Vicky?” he asked, slipping his arm round her shoulder. She began to sob, and through her broken words he gathered the story. Dodson had come home drunk while his wife was getting a bucket of water, had flung himself on the bed without seeing the baby, and had fallen at once into heavy stertorous slumber. When Mollie got back the child was dead, smothered by her own father.