"Proof!" blazed the gambler. "Proof! Ask Gaylord! Proof! Why, the
woman he murdered was my wife!"

It was Burrell's turn now to fall incoherent, and not only did his
speech forsake him, but his thoughts went madly veering off into a
wilderness where there was no trail, no light, no hope. What kind of
a coil was this? What frightful bones were these he bared? This man
was Bennett! This was Necia's father! This man he hated, this man
who was bad, whose name was a curse throughout the length and
breadth of the West, was the father of the girl he loved! His head
began to whirl, then the story of the trader came back to him, and
he remembered who and what the bearer of these later tidings was. He
raised a pair of eyes that had become furious and bloodshot, and
suddenly realized that the man before him, who persisted in saddling
upon Gale this heinous crime, was the slayer of Necia's mother; for
he did not doubt Gale's story for an instant. He found his fingers
writhing to feel the creature's throat.

"Proof!" Stark was growling. "How much proof do you need? I've
followed him for fifteen years. I've tracked him with men and dogs
through woods and deserts and mining-camps. I've slept on his trail
for five thousand miles, and now do you think I'm mistaken? He
killed my wife, I say, and robbed me of my little girl! That's her
in his house. That's her he calls Necia. She's my girl--MY GIRL, do
you understand?--and I'll have his life."

It was hate that animated him, and nothing more. He had no joy in
the finding of his offspring, no uplifted thought of justice. The
thirst for revenge, personal, violent, utter, was all that prompted
this man; but Burrell had no inkling yet of the father's well-shaped