Jed, who had ridden up the gulch to look after a gap in the fence, returned at dusk. As he watched VB feed the Captain he saw in the gloom the straining of the boy's face; heard him talk to the stallion piteously; and the old man's lips framed silent words. "If it's that girl," he declared, shaking his fist at the skies--"if it's that girl, she ought to be--ought to be spanked. An' if it's th' wantin' of whisky, God pity th' boy!" Supper was a curious affair. VB tried to help in the preparation but spoiled everything he touched, so far removed was his mind from the work of his hands. Jed ate alone. VB sat down, but could not touch the food offered. He gulped coffee so steaming hot that Jed cried aloud a warning. "Burned?" scoffed VB. "Burned by that stuff? Jed, you don't know what burning is!" He got to his feet and paced the floor, one hand pressed against his throat. The boy sat down twice again and drank from the cup the old man kept filled, but his lips rebelled at food; his hands would not carry it from the plate. Once Jed rose and tried to restrain the pacing. "VB, boy," he implored, "set down an' take it easy. Please do! It's been bad before, you know, but it's always turned out good in th' end. It will this time--same as always. Just--" "Don't, Jed." He spoke weakly, averting his white face and pushing the old man away gently with trembling hands. "You don't understand; you don't understand!" For the first time he was beyond comfort from the little old man who had showed him the lighted way, who had encouraged and comforted and held faith in him. After a while a calm fell on VB and he stopped his walking, helped with the work, and then sat, still and white, in his chair. Jed watched him narrowly and comfort came to the old soul, for he believed the boy had won another fight over the old foe; was so sure of it that he whistled as he prepared for the night. The candle burned on, low against the neck of the bottle, but still bright and steady. VB watched it, fascinated, thought tagging thought through his mind. Then a tremor shot through his body. "Jed," he said in a voice that was strained but even, "let's play a little pitch, won't you?" It was his last hope, the last attempt to divert the attack on his will and bolster his waning forces. His nerves jumped and cringed and quivered, but outwardly he was calm, his face drawn to mask the torture. Jed, aroused, rubbed his sleepy eyes and lighted his pipe. He put on his steel-rimmed spectacles and took down the greasy, cornerless deck of cards to shuffle them slowly, with method, as though it were a rite. VB sat motionless and a little limp in his chair, too far from the table for comfortable playing. Jed peered at him over his glasses. "You might get th' coffee beans," he said, with a great yawn. When the other did not answer he said again: "You might get th' coffee beans, VB. Sleepy?"