Curtis laughed good-naturedly. "Very likely, Homer; I didn't expect it to appeal forcibly to a sensible, practical chap like you. I haven't told you before because there was no use bothering your young head with it when the round-up seemed so far away; but I'm mighty near the end of the trail now, and you've come to a man's age and ways of thinking; so I thought it best to tell you. There's a possibility, of course, that I'll get the worst of it when the mix-up does come; and in that case I'd like you to know what it was all about. But I'm not considering that sort of chance as likely to happen." "But what do you expect to gain by it, Curt, and why do you want to kill the man?" Curtis slowly lighted a fresh cigar. "Well, Homer, if you don't see why, it's no use for me to explain." "I know there's a big difference between us temperamentally; but I don't believe that would keep me from appreciating your motive if it had any basis in right or expediency. Good God, Curt, look at the thing sensibly! Suppose you kill the man when you find him. What earthly good will that do you? You'd probably hang for it, or go to the penitentiary for years. And it seems to me the chance is all the other way. Whoever the man is, he must know you're after him; and you'll find him ready and loaded. If you're not killed you're likely to be badly wounded--perhaps lose an eye or a leg--and what can you gain by it? Bless me if I can see any use or sense or right in the whole business." Curtis Conrad rose and walked slowly and with bent head the length of the porch and back, his hand resting for an instant on his brother's shoulder as he passed. He stood regarding abstractedly the lightning that was playing among some low-lying clouds above the Hatchet Mountains, far to the southwest. "One night, soon after father and mother died," he began, in a tone so low that Homer could barely catch his words, "I lay awake almost all night, thinking. You were a little shaver barely out of kilts, the girls were young things with their dresses half way to their knees, and I was only fifteen. I had taken you into bed with me because I was afraid you'd wake up in the night and feel lonesome--and, perhaps, because I didn't want to feel quite so lonesome myself. I made plans for hours about how we could get along and the things I meant to do. You tossed in your sleep, and threw one of your hands against mine. My fingers closed over it, and you gripped one of them fast. Somehow, that grip went to my heart, and I promised myself and you that I would do all I could to make up to you the loss we had suffered. I thought of what father had planned for me; and I knew that I should have to give all that up. As I thought of the man who had robbed us of everything--money, opportunity, father and mother--I trembled with anger.