"_Mister_ Morgan!" said Dora, hardly a breath between her last word and
the next, "what_ever_ have you been doin' to your face?"

"No niggers in Ireland, now--no-o-o niggers in Ireland!" Conboy warned
her, coming forward with no less interest than his daughter's to peer
into Morgan's bruised and marred face. "Well, well!"--with much surprise
altogether genuine, "you're back again, Mr. Morgan?"

"Wherever _have_ you been?" Dora persisted, no more interested in
niggers in Ireland than elsewhere.

"I fell among thieves," Morgan told her, gravely. Then to Conboy: "Is
that gang from Texas stopping here?"

"No, they lay up at Peden's on the floor where they happen to fall,"
Conboy replied. "If there ever was a curse turned loose on a town that
gang--look at that showcase, look at that door, look at that safe. They
took the town last night, a decent woman didn't dare to show her face
outside the door and wasn't safe in the house. They tried to blow that
safe with powder when I wouldn't open it and give them the money. But
they didn't even jar it--your money's in there, Mr. Morgan, safe."

"Oh, it was awful!" said Dora. "Oh, you've got your gun! If some
man----"

"Sh-h-h! No nig----"

"Where's the marshal?" Morgan asked.

"Took the train east last night. The operator told me he got a wire from
Sol Drumm, boss of the outfit, to meet him in Abilene today. He swore
them six ruffians in as deputies before he went and left them in charge
of the town."

"Six? Where's the other one?"

Conboy looked at him with quick flashing of his shifty eyes. "Don't you
know?" he asked, with significant shrewdness, smiling a little as if to
show his friendly appreciation of the joke.

"What in the hell do you mean?" Morgan demanded.

"No niggers in Ireland, now," Conboy said soothingly, his face growing
white. "One of them was killed down by the railroad track the night you
left. They said you shot him and hopped a freight."

Morgan said no more, but turned toward the door to leave.

"The inquest hasn't been held over him yet, we've been kept so busy with
the marshal's cases we didn't get around to him," Conboy explained.
"Maybe you can throw some light on that case?"

"I can throw a lot of it," Morgan said, and walked out with that word to
where he had left his horse.

There Morgan cut six lengths from his new rope, drawing the pieces
through his belt in the manner of a man carrying string for sewing grain
sacks. He took the