“It’s Mercer’s way.  He regards the boy as his own personal property, and so he is, more or less.  He picked him up in the bush when he wasn’t more than a few days old.  The mother was dead.  Mercer took him, and he was brought up among the farm men.  He’s a queer young animal, more like a dog than a human being.  He needs hammering now and then.  I kick him occasionally myself.  But Mercer goes too far.”

“What had he done?” questioned Sybil.

“Oh, it was some neglect of the horses.  I don’t know exactly what.  Mercer isn’t precisely patient, you know.  And when the fellow gets thoroughly scared he’s like a rabbit; he can’t move.  Mercer thinks him obstinate, and the rest follows as a natural consequence.  I must ask you to excuse me.  I have work to do.”

“One moment!” Sybil laid a nervous hand on his arm.  “Mr. Curtis, if—­if you can’t persuade the poor boy to take any food, how will my husband do so?”

“He won’t,” said Curtis.  “He’ll hold him down while I drench him, that’s all.”

“That must be very bad for him,” she said.

“Of course it is.  But we can’t let him die, you know.”  He looked at her suddenly.  “Don’t you worry yourself, Mrs. Mercer,” he said kindly.  “He isn’t quite the same as a white man, though it may offend your Western prejudices to hear me say so.  Beelzebub will pull through all right.  They are wonderfully tough, these chaps.”

“I wonder if I could persuade him to take something,” she said.

He shook his head.

“I don’t suppose you could.  In any case, you mustn’t try.  It is against orders.”

“Whose orders?” she asked quickly.

“Your husband’s,” he answered.  “His last words to me were that I was on no account to let you go near him.”

“Oh, why?” she protested.  “And I might be able to help.”

“It isn’t at all likely,” he said.  “And he’s not a very pretty thing to look at.”

“As if that matters!” she exclaimed.

“Well, it does matter, because I don’t want to have you in hysterics, as much for my own sake as for yours.”  He smiled a little.  “Also, if Mercer finds he has been disobeyed it will make him savage again, and perhaps I shall be the next victim.”

“He would never touch you!” she exclaimed.

“He might.  Why shouldn’t he?”

“He never would!” she reiterated.  “You are not afraid of him.”

He looked contemptuous for a second; and then his expression changed.

“You are right,” he said.  “That is my chief safeguard; and, permit me to say, yours also.  It may be worth remembering.”

“You think him a coward!” she said.

He considered a little.

“No, not a coward,” he said then.  “There is nothing mean about him, so far as I can see.  He suffers from too much raw material, that’s all.  They call him Brute Mercer in these parts.  But perhaps you will be able to tame him some day.”