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Whether the rage Tim showed was all real or not; whether his accusations of bad faith came from so deeply wounded a spirit as he would have them believe, he was not likely to tell; but he claimed the prisoner as his own, and declined to say what he meant to do. When, however, they saw the abject terror of the Faith Healer as he begged not to be left alone with Tim–for they had not meant death, and Ingles thought he read death in Tim’s ferocious eyes–they laughed cynically, and left it to Tim to uphold the honor of Jansen and the Pioneers.

As they disappeared, the last thing they saw was Tim with his back to them, his hands on his hips, and a knife clasped in his fingers.

“He’ll lift his scalp and make a monk of him,” chuckled the oldest and hardest of them.

“Dat Tim will cut his heart out, I t’ink–bagosh!” said Nicolle Terasse, and took a drink of white whiskey.

For a long time Tim stood looking at the other, until no sound came from the woods whither the Pioneers had gone. Then at last, slowly and with no roughness, as the terror-stricken impostor shrank and withered, he cut the cords.

“Dress yourself,” he said, shortly, and sat down beside the stream, and washed his face and hands as though to cleanse them from contamination. He appeared to take no notice of the other, though his ears keenly noted every movement.

The impostor dressed nervously, yet slowly; he scarce comprehended anything, except that he was not in immediate danger. When he had finished, he stood looking at Tim, who was still seated on a log plunged in meditation.

It seemed hours before Tim turned round, and now his face was quiet, if set and determined. He walked slowly over, and stood looking at his victim for some time without speaking. The other’s eyes dropped, and a grayness stole over his features. This steely calm was even more frightening than the ferocity which had previously been in his captor’s face. At length the tense silence was broken:

“Wasn’t the old game good enough? Was it played out? Why did you take to this? Why did you do it, Scranton?”

The voice quavered a little in reply: “I don’t know. Something sort of pushed me into it.”

“How did you come to start it?”

There was a long silence, then the husky reply came:

“I got a sickener last time–“

“Yes, I remember, at Waywing.”

“I got into the desert, and had hard times–awful for a while. I hadn’t enough to eat, and I didn’t know whether I’d die by hunger or fever or Indians–or snakes.”

“Oh, you were seeing snakes!” said Tim, grimly.

“Not the kind you mean; I hadn’t anything to drink–“

“No, you never did drink, I remember–just was crooked, and slopped over women. Well, about the snakes?”

“I caught them to eat, and they were poison-snakes often. And I wasn’t quick at first to get them safe by the neck–they’re quick, too.”

Tim laughed inwardly. “Getting your food by the sweat of your brow–and a snake in it, same as Adam! Well, was it in the desert you got your taste for honey, too, same as John the Baptist–that was his name, if I recomember?” He looked at the tin of honey on the ground.

“Not in the desert, but when I got to the grass-country.”

“How long were you in the desert?”

“Close to a year.”

Tim’s eyes opened wider. He saw that the man was speaking the truth.

“Got to thinking in the desert, and sort of willing things to come to pass, and mooning along, you and the sky and the vultures and the hot hills and the snakes and the flowers–eh?”

“There weren’t any flowers till I got to the grass-country.”

“Oh, cuss me, if you ain’t simple for your kind! I know all about that. And when you got to the grass-country you just picked up the honey and the flowers, and a calf and a lamb and a mule here and there, ‘without money and without price,’ and walked on–that it?”