"A while ago ... yesterday, maybe ... I said something to you about a, about a woman," the man said, and an uneasiness marked his expression. "I apologize, Old Man. I don't know just what I said, but I was nasty, and I'm sorry. A ... a man's woman is his own affair; nobody's else." "You think so?" The question came with a surprising bluntness. "Why, yes; always." Bayard turned from the bedside abruptly and strode across the floor to the table where a pan waited for the dirty dishes, rolling up his sleeves as he went, face troubled. Lytton's eyes followed him, a trifle sadly at first, but slowly, as the other worked, a cunning came into them, a shiftiness, a crafty glitter. He moistened his lips with his tongue and stirred uneasily on his pillow. Once, he opened his mouth as though to speak but checked the impulse. When the dishpan was hung away and Bayard stood rolling down his sleeves, Lytton said: "Old man, yesterday you gave me a drink or two. Can't ... haven't you any left this morning?" "I have," the rancher said slowly, "but you don't need it to-day. You did yesterday, but this mornin' you've got some grub in you, you got somethin' more like a clear head, an' I don't guess any snake juice would help matters along very fast. There's more coffee here an' you can fill up on that any old time you get shaky." "Coffee!" scoffed the other, a sudden weak rage asserting itself. "What th' hell do I want of coffee? What I need's whiskey! Don't you think I know what I want? Lord, Bayard, I'm a man, ain't I? I can judge for myself what I want, can't I?" "Yesterday, you said you was a gentleman," Bayard replied, reminiscently, his tone lightly chaffing, "an' I guess that about states your case. As for you knowin' what you want ... I don't agree with you; judgin' from your past, anyhow." The man in the bed bared his teeth in an unpleasant smile; two of the front teeth were missing, another broken, result of some recent fight, and with his swollen eyes he was a revolting sight. As he looked at him, Bayard's face reflected his deep disgust. "What's your game?" Lytton challenged. "I didn't ask you to bring me here, did I? I haven't asked any favors of you, have I? You ... You shanghaied me out to your damned ranch; you keep me here, and then won't even give me a drink out of your bottle. Hell, any sheepherder'd do that for me! "If you think I'm ungrateful for what you've done--sobered me up, I mean--just say so and I'll get out. That was all right. But what was your object?" "I thought by bringing you out here you might get straightened up. I did it for your own good. You don't understand right now, but you may ... sometime." "My own good! Well, I've had enough for my own good, now, so I guess I won't wait any longer to understand!" He kicked off the covers and stood erect, swaying dizzily. Bayard stepped across to him.