"By God!" he exclaimed, suddenly prescient,
"but I've done for myself."

And he thought of Clare, of Clare fighting
eternally that sharp pain in her side, her face now
drawn and glistening with the sweat of suffering,
now girlishly gay. He thought of her fragile hands
so impotent to cope with the bitter poverty of the
mountains. What, with their home, her place of
retreat and security, gone, and -- it now appeared
more than probable -- his occupation vanished,
would she do?

"I've done for myself, for her," he repeated, subconsciously
aloud, in a harsh whisper. He stood
rigid, unseeing; a pulse beat visibly in the brown
throat by the collarless and faded shirt. Simmons
regarded him with a covert gaze, then, catching the
attention of the clerk in the store outside, beckoned
slightly with his head. The clerk approached, vigorously
brushing the counters with a turkey wing.

Gordon Makimmon's gaze concentrated on the
storekeeper. "You're almost an old man," he said,
in a slow, unnatural voice; "you have been robbing
men and women of their homes for a great many
years, and you are still alive. It's surprising that
some one has not killed you."

"I have been shot at," Valentine Simmons replied;
"behind my back. The men who fail are like
that as a rule."

[[46]]

p045 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p046w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p047

v?