Squatting on his upturned box he gazed out upon the sunlit stream below him.  His dark eyes were full of a pensive calm.  His body was inclining forward, supported by arms folded across his knees.  An unlit pipe thrust in the corner of his mouth was the one touch that defeated the efforts of his flowing hair and dark beard to suggest a youthful hermit meditating in the doorway of his retreat.

Bull Sternford was seated on another box at the opposite side of the doorway.  He, too, had a pipe thrust between his strong jaws.  But he was smoking.  Beyond the dressings applied to a few abrasions he bore no signs of his recent battle.  But there still burned a curiously fierce light in his handsome blue eyes.

“You shouldn’t have butted in, Father,” he said, in a tone which betrayed the emotion under which he was still labouring.  “You just shouldn’t.”  Then with a movement of irritation:  “Oh, I’m not a feller yearning for homicide.  No.  It’s not that.  You know Arden Laval,” he went on, his brows depressing.  “Of course you do.  You must know him a whole heap better than I do.  Well?  Say, I guess that feller hasn’t a right to walk this earth.  He boasts the boys he’s smashed the life clean out of.  He’s killed more fool lumber-jacks than you could count on the fingers of two hands.  He wanted my scalp to hang on his belt.  That man’s a murderer before God.  But he’s beyond the recall of law up here.  And he stops around on the fringe looking for the poor fool suckers who don’t know better than to get within his reach.  Gee, it was tough!  I’d a holt on him I wouldn’t get in a thousand years, and I’d nearly got the life out of him.  I’d stood for all his dirt weeks on end.  He made his set at me because I’m green and college-bred.  But he called me a ‘son-of-a-bitch!’ Think of it!  Oh, I can’t rest with that hitting my brain.  It’s no use.  I’ll have to break him.  God, I’ll break him yet.  And I’ll see you aren’t around when I do it.”

The man’s voice had risen almost to a shout.  His bandaged hands clenched into fists like limbs of mutton.  He held them out at the man opposite, and in his agony of rage, it gave the impression he was threatening.

Father Adam stirred.  He reached down into the box under him and picked up a pannikin.  Then he produced a flask from an inner pocket.  He unscrewed the top and poured out some of its contents.  He held it out to the other.

“Drink it,” he said quietly.

The blue eyes searched the dark face before them.  In a moment excitement had begun to pass.

“What is it?” Bull demanded roughly.

“It’s brandy, and there’s dope in it.”

“Dope?”

“Yes.  Bromide.  You’ll feel better after you’ve swallowed it.  You see I want to make a big talk with you.  That’s why I brought you here.  That’s why I stopped you killing that feller—­that, and other reasons.  But I can’t talk with you acting like—­like I’d guess Arden Laval would act.  Drink that right up.  And you needn’t be scared of it.  It’ll just do you the good you need.”