gazing at him accusingly.

"John Webb," said he "you forget that I came out here in, '48. On your
honour, do you expect _me_ to believe that yarn?"

"Well," said Webb, gazing again at his cigar end, "no--really I don't. The
fact is," he went on with a perfectly solemn air of confidence, "the fact
is, I've lived out here so long and told so many damn lies that now without
some help I don't know when to believe myself."

"Do we get that drink?" insisted Calhoun Bennett.

"Oh, Lord, yes, you always get a drink."

"Well, come on and _get_ it then--you, too, of course, Mr. Sherwood."

The gambler arose, and began leisurely to fold his paper and to put away
his spectacles.

"I see you got Mex Ryan off, Cal," he observed. "You either had
extraordinary luck, or you're a mighty fine lawyer. Looked like a clear
case to me. He just naturally went in and beat Rucker half to death in his
own store. How did you do it?"

"I assure yo' it was no sinecure," laughed the tall, dark youth. "I earned
my fee."

"Yes," grumbled Webb, "but he got six months--and I got to take care of
him. Cluttering up my jail with dirty beasts like Mex Ryan! Could just as
easy have turned him loose!"