admission that would never be made, but had rather been linked with the offensive sentimentality that has constituted so much of the hue and cry of over-officious prohibitionists. Yet in one single vivid second of introspection he knew the truth. In this hour when all his best instincts warned him to abstain, the craving was almost too terrible to resist.
But he won that fight at last. He would have been ashamed to admit it, but little, icy sweatdrops had come out upon his forehead. And the victory left him curiously sobered. For the first time in his life, it seemed to him, he knew Hugh Gaylord as he really was.
The guide still stood waiting. Hugh's eyes swept to the flock. The two of them were on guard to-night, and this was no time to blur the senses with heady liquor. A hard task awaited them on the morrow. Besides—it was dead man's drink.
"Put it back," Hugh directed quietly.
The Indian stiffened, and his dark face grew sullen. Hugh watched him coldly. It looked like mutiny, and Hugh might have wondered at his own composure, his confidence in his own ability to win this battle, too.
"I don't put 'em back," the guide retorted. "He—won't need 'em now. Why put 'em back?"
"The reason why," Hugh explained in a passionless voice, " is because I said so. I remem-
