For a long time he wandered through the night, fighting his animal and his spiritual longings, battling with irresolution, striving to reconcile himself to the crash that had overwhelmed him.  More than once he was upon the point of rushing back to the woman and pouring out the full tide of his passion in a desperate attempt to sweep away her doubts and her apprehensions.  What if she should refuse to respond?  He would merely succeed in making himself ridiculous and in sacrificing what little appearance of dignity he retained.  Thus pride prevented, uncertainty paralyzed him.

Some women, it seemed to him, not bad in themselves, were born to work evil, and evidently Hilda was one of them.  She had done her task well in this instance, for she had thoroughly blasted his life!  He would pretend to forget, but nevertheless he would see to it that she was undeceived, and that the injury she had done him remained an ever-present reproach to her.  That would be his revenge.  Real forgetfulness, of course, was out of the question.  How could he assume such an attitude?  As he pondered the question he remembered that there were artificial aids to oblivion.  Ruined men invariably took to drink.  Why shouldn’t he attempt to drown his sorrows?  After all, might there not be real and actual relief in liquor?  After consideration he decided to try it.

From a tent saloon near by came the sounds of singing and of laughter, and thither he turned his steps.  When he entered the place a lively scene greeted him.  Somehow or other a small portable organ had been secured, and at this a bearded fellow in a mackinaw coat was seated.  He was playing a spirited accompaniment for two women, sisters, evidently, who sang with the loud abandon of professional “coon shouters.”  Other women were present, and Phillips recognized them as members of that theatrical troupe he had seen at Sheep Camp—­as those “actresses” to whom Tom Linton had referred with such elaborate sarcasm.  All of them, it appeared, were out for a good time, and in consequence White Horse was being treated to a free concert.

The song ended in a burst of laughter and applause, the men at the bar pounded with their glasses, and there was a general exodus in that direction.  One of the sisters flung herself enthusiastically upon the volunteer organist and dragged him with her.  There was much hilarity and a general atmosphere of license and unrestraint.

Phillips looked on moodily; he frowned, his lip curled.  All the world was happy, it seemed, while he nursed a broken heart.  Well, that was in accord with the scheme of things—­life was a mad, topsy-turvy affair at best, and there was nothing stable about any part of it.  He felt very grim, very desperate, very much abused and very much outside of all this merriment.

Men were playing cards at the rear of the saloon, and among the number was Sam Kirby.  The old gambler showed no signs of his trying experience of the afternoon; in fact, it appeared to have been banished utterly from his mind.  He was drinking, and even while Pierce looked on he rapped sharply with his iron hand to call the bartender’s attention.  Meanwhile he scanned intently the faces of all new-comers.