"I suppose the newspapers have greatly exaggerated about your conflicts?" Harold was a little disposed to shock his father. "Oh, yes, I don't think I really killed as many men as they tell about; I don't know that I killed any." "I hope you did not lightly resort to the use of deadly weapons," said Mr. Excell sadly. "It was kill or be killed," said Harold grimly. "It was like shooting a pack of howling wolves. I made up my mind to be just one shot ahead of anybody. There are certain counties out there where the name 'Black Mose' means something." "I'm sorry for that, my son. I hope you don't drink?" "Don't you worry about that. I can't afford to drink, and if I could I wouldn't. Oh, I take a glass of beer with the boys once in a while on a hot day, but it's my lay to keep sober. A drunken man is a soft mark." He changed the subject: "Seems to me you're a good deal grayer." Mr. Excell ran his fingers through the tumbled heap of his grizzled hair. "Yes; things are troubling me a little. The McPhails are fighting me in the church, and intend to throw me out and ruin me if they can, but I shall fight them till the bitter end. I am not to be whipped out like a dog." "That's the talk! Don't let 'em run you out. I got run out of Cheyenne, but I'll never run again. I was only a kid then. After you throw 'em down, come out West and round up the cowboys. They won't play any underhanded games on you, and mebbe you can do them some good--especially on gambling. They are sure enough idiots about cards." They went down to breakfast together, but did not sit together. Jack and Harold talked in low voices about Mr. Excell. "The old man looks pretty well run down, don't he?" said Harold. "He worries a whole lot about you." "He needn't to. When does he go back?" "He wants to stay all day--just as long as he can." "He'd better pull right out on that ten o'clock train. His being here is sure to give me away sooner or later." It was hard for the father to say good-by. He had a feeling that it was the last time he should ever see him, and his face was gray with suffering as he faced his son for the last time. Harold became not merely unresponsive, he grew harsher of voice each moment. His father's tremulous and repeated words seemed to him foolish and absurd--and also inconsiderate. After he was gone he burst out in wrath. "Why can't he act like a man? I don't want anybody to snivel over me. Suppose I _am_ to be shot this fall, what of it?" This disgust and bitterness prepared him, strange to say, for his call upon Mary. He entered the house, master of himself and the situation. His nerves were like steel, and his stern face did not quiver in its minutest muscle, though she met him in most gracious mood, dressed as for conquest and very beautiful. "I'm so glad you stayed over," she said. "I have been so eager to hear all about your life out there." She led the way to the little parlor once more and drew a chair near him.