cow-punchers. It's always the drummers and the mine directors that
the Red Rider lays for. How does he know they're in the stage if he
don't see 'em start from Kiowa? Ask 'Pop' Henderson. Ask 'Abe'
Fisher. Mebbe they know more than they'd care to tell."

The money which at different times Cahill had taken from the Kiowa
stage lay in a New York bank, and the law of limitation made it now
possible for him to return to that city and claim it. Already his
savings were sufficient in amount to support both his daughter and
himself in one of those foreign cities, of which she had so often
told him and for which he knew she hungered. And for the last five
years he had had no other object in living than to feed her wants.
Through some strange trick of the mind he remembered suddenly and
vividly a long-forgotten scene in the back room of McTurk's, when he
was McTurk's bouncer. The night before a girl had killed herself in
this same back room; she made the third who had done so in the month.
He recalled the faces of the reporters eyeing McTurk in cold distaste
as that terror of the Bowery whimpered before them on his knees. "But
my daughters will read it," he had begged. "Suppose they believe I'm
what you call me. Don't go and give me a bad name to them, gentlemen.
It ain't my fault the girl's died here. You wouldn't have my
daughters think I'm to blame for that? They're ladies, my daughters,
they're just out of the convent, and they don't know that there is
such women in the world as come to this place. And I can't have 'em
turned against their old pop. For God's sake, gentlemen, don't let my
girls know!"

Cahill remembered the contempt he had felt for his employer as he
pulled him to his feet, but now McTurk's appeal seemed just and
natural. His point of view was that of the loving and considerate