The collector's hard-lined face softened for an instant. He thrust out
his bony hand. "I'll leave that to you, Jim."

And that night, because each was a gunman unsurpassed in his grim
profession, they laughed and talked about things trivial, leaving the
deeper currents undisturbed. And the assistant collector, eating with
them in the adobe back of the office, wondered that two such men found
nothing more serious to talk about than the breeding of horses and the
growing of garden truck.

Late that night the assistant awoke to find that the collector was not
in bed. He rose and stalked to the window. Across from the adobe he saw
the grim face of the collector framed in the office window. He was
smoking a cigar and gazing toward the south, his long arm resting on the
sill and his chin in his hand.

"Ole fool!" muttered the assistant affectionately. "That there Jim
Waring must sure be some hombre to make Pat lose any sleep."




Chapter VII


_The Return of Waring_

The interior of the little desert hotel at Stacey, Arizona, atoned for
its bleached and weather-worn exterior by a refreshing neatness that was
almost startling in contrast to the warped board front with its painted