That these were his feelings was undeniable. That the thoughts of the possibilities of an attack on the camp were the mainspring of his antagonism to the man, that this voluntary guardianship of Scipio and his twins was the source of his rage against him, it was impossible to believe. They may have influenced him in a small degree, but only in a small degree. The man was cast in a very different mold from that of a simple philanthropist. It was the man's vanity, the headstrong vanity of a strong and selfish man, that drove him. And as he sat silently raging under his thoughts of the happenings of that day, had he put his paramount feelings into words he would have demanded how James dared to exist in a district which he, Wild Bill of Abilene, had made his own. He spent the evening sitting on his bed or pacing his little hut, his thoughts tumbling headlong through his brain. He found himself almost absently inspecting his armory, and loading and unloading his favorite weapons. There was no definite direction in anything he thought or did, unless it were in the overwhelming hatred against James which colored his every feeling. Without realizing it, every force of mind and body was seeking inspiration. And the evening was well-nigh spent before inspiration came. Careless of time, of everything but his feelings, he had finally flung himself full length upon his bed, brain-weary and resourceless. Then came the change. As his head touched the pillow it almost seemed to rebound; and he found himself sitting up again glaring at the opposite wall with the desired inspiration in his gimlet eyes. "Gee!" he breathed, with a force that sent the exclamation hissing through the room. And for an hour his attitude remained unchanged. His legs were drawn up and his long arms were clasped about his knees. His eyes were fiercely focused upon a cartridge-belt hanging upon the wall, and there they remained, seemingly a fixture, while thought, no longer chaotic, flew through his revivified brain. He gave no sign; he uttered no word. But his face told its story of a fiendish joy which swept from his head to his heart, and thrilled his whole body. It was in the midst of this that he received a visit from his friend Minky. And the moment the door opened in response to his summons the look in his eyes, when he saw who his visitor was, was a cordial welcome. He swung round and dropped his legs over the side of his bunk. "What's the time?" he demanded. Minky pointed to the alarm-clock on the gambler's table. "Nigh one o'clock," he said, with a faint smile. But Bill ignored the quiet sarcasm. "Good," he cried. Then he brought his eyes to the other's face. They were literally blazing with suppressed excitement. There was something in them, too, that lifted Minky out of his desperate mood. Somehow they suggested hope to him. Somehow the very presence of this man had a heartening effect.