but a difference. He was for lynchin' a fellow called Piccadilly,
a swell that'd come down in the world, bringin' the worst tricks of
his tribe with him. He'd never been a bony fidy gentleman--just an
imitation. He played sneak with the daughter of Five Fingers, an Injin
chief. We'd set store by that girl. There wasn't one of us rough nuts
but respected her. She was one of the few beautiful Injin women I've
seen. Well, it come out that Piccadilly had ruined her, and one morning
she was found dead. It drove my pal well-nigh crazy. Not that she was
anything partik'ler to him; but the thing took hold of him unusual."

Now that I know all concerning Roscoe's past life, I can imagine that
this recital must have been swords at his heart. The whole occurrence is
put down minutely in his diary, but there is no word of comment upon it.

Phil had been obliged to stop for pain, and, after Roscoe had adjusted
the bandages, he continued:

"My pal and the others made up their minds they'd lynch Piccadilly; they
wouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt--for it wasn't certain that
the girl hadn't killed herself. . . . Well, I went to Piccadilly, and
give him the benefit. He left, and skipped the rope. Not, p'r'aps, that
he ought to hev got away, but once he'd showed me a letter from his
mother,--he was drunk too, at the time,--and I remembered when my brother
Rodney was killed in the Black Hills, and how my mother took it; so I
give him the tip to travel quick."

He paused and rested. Then presently continued: "Now, Padre, I've got
four hundred dollars--the most I ever had at one time in my life. And
I'd like it to go to my old pal--though we had that difference, and
parted. I guess we respect each other about the same as we ever did.