The boy sat back in his chair with a long-drawn breath after shoving his chips across to be cashed. He pushed his hat back for the first time, and a man across the table stared hard as he saw the harried face. The others were busy, cashing in. "Just get in, VB?" some one asked. He heard the question through a tumult. His muscles had already contracted in the first movement of rising; his will already directed his feet across the room to the bar to answer the call of those searching bottle eyes. Inwardly he raged at himself for holding off so long, for wasting those months, for letting that other new thing come into his life only to be torn away again; when it all meant mere delay, a drawing out of suffering! Only half consciously he framed the answer: "Yes, I rode down to-night." "Goin' on out?" "What?" he asked, forcing his mind to give heed to the other. "Goin' on out, or goin' to hang around a while?" "I don't know." The boy got to his feet, and the reply was given with rare bitterness. "I don't know," he said again, voice mounting. "I may go out--and I may not. I may hang around a while, and it mayn't take long. I'm here to finish something I started a long time ago, something that I've been putting off. I'm going to put a stop to a lying, hypocritical existence. I'm--" He broke off thickly and moved away from the table. No imagination created a hush this time. On his words the counting of chips ceased. They looked at him, seeing utter desperation, and not understanding. A face outside that had been pressed close to a window was lowered, darkness hiding the glitter of green eyes and the leering smile of triumph. A figure slunk along carefully to the corner of the building and joined two others. It was his chance! Rhues was out to get his man this moonlight night, and there was now no danger. Young VB was no longer afraid to take a drink. He would give up his fight, give up his hard-wrung freedom, and when drunken men go down, shot in a quarrel, there is always cause. He had him now! VB lurched across the room toward the bar. In mid-floor he paused, turned, and faced those at the poker table. "Don't mistake me," he said with a grin. "Don't think I'm talking against any man in the country. It's myself, boys--just _me_. I'm the liar, the hypocrite. I've tried to lie myself into being what I never can be. I've come out here among you to go by the name of the outfit I ride for. You don't know me, don't even know my name, say nothing of my own rotten self. Well, you're going to know me as I am." He swung around to face the bar. The bartender pulled nervously on his mustache. "What'll it be, VB?" he asked, surprised knowledge sending the professional question to his lips. "The first thing you come to," the boy muttered, and grasped the bar for support. CHAPTER XXI Guns Crash