When Pool Clayton came to himself, with the darkness about him, except where it was lightened by the dying camp fire, he saw that he was alone--that he had been abandoned. His horse, grazing close by, tearing noisily at the grass, was the only thing of life near him; but he shuddered when he heard, afar off, the howl of wolves. “The men have left me!” he said, staggering to his feet. There was caked blood on his face, and on his shirt, for that blow in the face had caused his nose to bleed freely. He was stiff and sore, and he felt dizzy and wretchedly sick and miserable. As full recollection came to him, his whole body burned with uncontrollable rage against Snaky Pete and the men who constituted his band of road-agent outlaws. Clayton glanced round, looked at the sky, and then at the nearly extinct fire. “They’ve been gone some time,” he said. “And have left me out here, thinking maybe the wolves would get me.” Then he swore violently, raging against Snaky Pete, whom he loaded with opprobrious names and noisy abuse. By and by he became saner and cooler, though his new hatred of Snaky Pete did not abate. He lighted a torch of grass at the fire, and looked for the trail of the outlaws, finding it soon. “Gone on,” he said; “and they’ll camp about morning at the Poplar Bluffs.” He knew the place, and was sure he could find the outlaws in camp there; but he did not know whether to follow them or not. In his searching he expected to come upon the body of the old trapper, being fully persuaded that Snaky Pete meant his death. “They’ll shoot him, and leave him by the trail for the wolves to eat,” he said. “Maybe that’s what the wolves are howling over now.” He shuddered, as when Snaky Pete commanded him to shoot the old man. “I couldn’t do that!” was his thought. “I couldn’t do it!” He stirred the fire into new life, for its light drove away a certain lonely feeling that troubled him. And he began to think of what he should now do. “I was a fool for ever joinin’ ’em,” he assured himself, groaning over the memory of Snaky Pete’s brutal blow. “He’ll kill me, mebbe, if I foller ’em; and the boys will make sport of me.” He was beginning to realize that he was not, after all, cut from the same cloth as these outlaws. He had been wild in the town, had gambled, and got into bad company; and, being tempted one night, he had gone with an acquaintance and joined Snaky Pete’s band of road agents; being assured by his new friend--one of Snaky Pete’s men--that the life led by this band was one long and gay carouse, with plenty of fun--altogether a desirable life for a young man of courage and spirit; who felt the chafing restraint of law and order.