He had been rather a frail youth, with very little confidence in himself. Above all else he had always admired strength and courage, the qualities in which he was most lacking. He had lived on the defensive, oppressed by a subconscious sense of inferiority. His actions had been conditioned by fear. Life at the charitable institution where he had been sent as a small child fostered this depression of the ego and its subjection to external circumstances. The manager of the home ruled by the rod. Bob had always lived in a sick dread of it. Only within the past few months had he begun to come into his own, a heritage of health and happiness. Dud Hollister came to him out of Dolan's saloon. "Say, fellow, where's my gun?" he asked. Bob looked up. "He--took it." "Do I lose my six-shooter?" "I'll fix it with you when I get the money to buy one." The boy looked so haggard, his face so filled with despair, that Dud was touched in spite of himself. "Why in Mexico didn't you give that bird a pill outa the gun?" he asked. "I don't know. I'm--no good," Bob wailed. "You said it right that time. I'll be doggoned if I ever saw such a thing as a fellow lettin' another guy walk off with his wife--when he ain't been married hardly two hours yet. Say, what's the matter with you anyhow? Why didn't you take a fall outa him? All he could 'a' done was beat you to death." "He hurt me," Bob confessed miserably. "I--was afraid." "Hurt you? Great jumpin' Jupiter. Say, fellows, listen to Miss--Miss Roberta here. He hurt him, so he quit on the job--this guy here did. I never heard the beat o' that." "If you'll borrow one of yore friends' guns an' blow my brains out you'll do me a favor," the harried youth told Hollister in a low voice. Hollister looked at him searchingly. "I might, at that," agreed the puncher. "But I'm not doin' that kind of favor to-day. I'll give you a piece of advice. This ain't no country for you. Hop a train for Boston, Mass., or one o' them places where you can take yore troubles to a fellow with a blue coat. Tha's where you belong." Up the street rolled Blister Haines, in time to hear the cowpuncher's suggestion. Already the news had reached the justice of what had taken place. He was one of those amiable busybodies who take care of other people's troubles for them. Sometimes his efforts came to grief and sometimes they did not. "Hit the trail, you lads," he ordered. "I'll l-look out for this b-business. The exc-c-citement's all over anyhow. Drift." The range-riders disappeared. At best the situation was an embarrassing one. It is not pleasant to be in the company of one who has just shown himself a poltroon and is acutely aware of it. Blister took Dillon into his office. He lowered himself into the biggest chair carefully, rolled a cigarette, and lit up. "Tell me about it," he ordered.