"I go when I'm damned pleased ter go!" he flung out derisively, "and I come the same way, young feller. There's mail for yo' in the sack and--a telegram." White paused by the door a moment while Truedale picked the yellow envelope from the bag and tore it open. "Your uncle died suddenly on the 16th. Come at once. Vitally important. McPHERSON." For a moment both men forgot the thing that had driven them wide apart. "Bad news?" asked the sheriff. Something was happening to Truedale--he felt as if the effect of some narcotic were losing its power; the fevered unreality was giving place to sensation but the brain was recording it dully. "What date is this?" he asked, dazed. "Twenty-fifth," Jim replied as he moved out of the door. "When can I get a train from the station?" "There's one as leaves anywhere 'twixt nine and ten ter-night." "That gives me time to pack. See here, White, while it isn't any of your business, I want to explain a thing or two--before I go. I'll be back as soon as I can--in a week or ten days at furthest. When I return I intend to stay on, probably for the rest of my life." White still held Truedale by the cold, steely gleam of his eyes which was driving lucidity home to the dulled brain. By a power as unyielding as death Jim was destroying the screen Truedale had managed to raise against the homely codes of life and was leaving his guest naked and exposed. The shock of the telegram--the pause it evolved--had given Truedale time to catch the meaning of White's attitude; now that he realized it, he knew he must lay certain facts open--he could not wait until his return. Presently Jim spoke from outside the door. "I ain't settin' up for no critic. I ain't by nater a weigher or trimmer and I don't care a durn for what ain't my business. When I _see_ my business I settle it in my own way!"--there was almost a warning in this. "I'm dead tired, root and branch. I'm goin' ter take a bite an' turn in. I may sleep a couple o' days; put off yo' 'splainifyin' 'til yo' come back ter end yo' days. Take the mare an' leave her by the trail; she'll come home. Tell old Doc McPherson I was askin' arter him." By that time Jim had ceased scorching his way to Truedale's soul and was on the path to his own cabin. "Looks like yo' had a tussle with the storm," he remarked. "Any livin' thing killed?" "No." "Thank yo'!" Then, as if determined not to share any further confidence, White strode on. For a moment Truedale stood and stared after his host in impotent rage. Was Jim White such a lily of purity that he presumed to take that attitude? Was the code of the hills that of the Romany gypsies? How dare any man judge and sentence another without trial?