At the stove Ford debated with himself while he drew off his gloves and held his fingers to the welcome heat which emanated from a red glow where the fire burned hottest within.  He had not made any promise to himself or any one else, he remembered.  He had simply resolved that he would make good, if it were humanly possible to do so.  That, he told himself, did not necessarily mean that he should turn a teetotaler out and out.  Taking a drink, when a man was cold and felt the need of it, was not—­

At that point in the argument two of his own men entered, stamping noisily upon the threshold.  They were laughing, from pure animal satisfaction over the comforts within, rather than at any tangible cause for mirth, and they called to Ford with easy comradeship.  Dick Thomas—­the Dick whom Buddy had mentioned in connection with Josephine—­waved his hand hospitably toward the bar.

“Come on, Campbell,” he invited.  He may have seen the hesitancy in Ford’s face, for he laughed.  “I believe in starting on the inside and driving the frost out,” he said.

The two poured generously from the bottle which the bartender pushed within easy reach, and Ford watched them.  There was a peculiar lift to Dick’s upper lip—­the lift which comes when scorn is the lever.  Ford’s eyes hardened a little; he walked over and stood beside Dick, and he took a drink as unemotionally as if it had been water.  He ordered another round, threw a coin upon the bar, and walked out.  He had rather liked Dick, in an impersonal sort of way, but that half-sneer clung disagreeably to his memory.  A man likes to be held the master—­be the slave circumstance, danger, an opposing human, or his own appetite; and although Ford was not the type of man who troubles himself much about the opinions of his fellows, it irked him much that Dick or any other man should sneer at him for a weakling.

He went to another saloon, found and hired a cow-puncher strayed up from Valley County, and when Dick came in, a half-hour later, Ford went to the bar and deliberately “called up the house.”  He had been minded to choose a mineral water then, but he caught Dick’s mocking eye upon him, and instead took whisky straight, and stared challengingly at the other over the glass tilted against his lips.

After that, the liquor itself waged relentless war against his good resolutions, so that it did not need the urge of Dick’s fancied derision to send him down the trail which the past had made familiar.  He sat in to a poker game that was creating a small zone of subdued excitement at the far end of the room, and while he was arranging his stacks of red, white, and blue chips neatly before him, he was unpleasantly conscious of Dick’s supercilious smile.  Never mind—­he was not the first foreman who ever played poker; they all did, when the mood seized them.  Ford straightened his shoulders instinctively, in defiance of certain inner misgivings, and pushed forward his ante of two white chips.