It was as if the curtain of the civilizing, the humanizing, ages had been withdrawn a hand's-breadth to give him a clear outlook on primordial chaos. Once across the mystic threshold, untrammeled by the hamperings of tradition, unterrified by the threat of the mythical future, the human atom becomes its own law, the arbiter of its own momentary destiny. What it wills to do, it may do--if iron-shod chance, blind and stumbling blindly, does not happen to trample on and efface it. Who first took it on him to say, _Thou shalt not kill_? What were any or all of the prohibitions but the frantic shrillings of some of the atoms to the others? In the clear outlook Thomas Gordon saw himself as one whose foot was already across the threshold. True, he had thus far broken with the world of time-honored traditions only in part. But why should he scruple to be wholly free? If the man whose deed of brutality or passion was disturbing the chanceful equilibrium for two other human dust-grains should be identified, why should he not be effaced? The child at Nan's breast stirred in its sleep and threw up its tiny hands in the convulsive movement which is the human embryo's first unconscious protest against the helplessness of which it is born inheritor. Tom stood up, beating the air softly with the hunting-crop. "The man has spoiled your life, Nan; and, incidentally, he has muddied the spring for me--robbed me of the love and respect of the one woman in the world," he said, quite without heat. "If I find him, I think I shall blot him out--like that." A bumblebee was bobbing and swaying on a head of red clover, and the sudden swish of the hunting-crop left it a little disorganized mass of black and yellow down and broken wing-filaments. The glow in the dark eyes of the woman had died down again, and her voice was hard and lifeless when she said: "But not for me, Tom-Jeff; you ain't wantin' to kill him like my brother would, if I had one." "No; not at all for you, Nan," he said half-absently. And then he tramped away to the gate, and put a leg over Saladin, and rode down the straggling street of the little settlement, again in the face and eyes of all who cared to see. The bay had measured less than a mile of the homeward way when there came a clatter of hoof-beats in the rear. Tom awoke out of the absent fit, spoke to Saladin and rode the faster. Nevertheless, the pursuing horseman overtook him, and a drawling voice said: "Hit's right smart wicked to shove the bay thataway down-hill, son." Tom pulled his horse down to a walk. He was in no mood for companionship, but he knew Pettigrass would refuse to be shaken off. "Where have you been?" he asked sourly. "Me? I been over to McLemore's Valley, lookin' at some brood-mares that old man Mac is tryin' to sell the Major." "Did you come through Pine Knob?"