fore when he had followed Judge Maynard's beckoning
finger.

Hours after the enthusiastic circle about the Tavern stove had
dissolved he had labored to reproduce that white, bitter, quivering
face at the door, only to find that the very vividness of his memory
somehow baffled the cunning of his pencil. There had been more than
mere bitterness in those curveless, colorless lips; something more
than doubt of self behind the white hot flare in the gray eyes. Now,
in the light of day, his eyes searched for it openly and failed to
find even a ghost of what it might have been.

"No," he ruminated gently, and he spoke more to himself than the
other, "you don't stand deuce high with this community. You're way
down on the list." He hesitated, weighing his words, suddenly a little
doubtful as to how far he might safely venture. "I--I guess
you've--er--disappointed them too long, haven't you?"

The blood surged up under Young Denny's dark skin until it touched his
crisp black hair, and the fat man hastened to throw a touch of
jocularity into the statement.

"Yep, you've disappointed 'em sorely. But I've been monopolizing all
the conversation. I can't convince myself that you've come down here
merely to say me a touching farewell. Was there--was there something
you wanted to see me about in particular?"

It was the very opening for which Denny had been waiting--the opening
which he had not known how to make himself, for his plan for procedure
by which he was to accomplish it was just as indistinct as his
resolution had been final. He nodded silently, uncertain just how to
begin, and then he plunged desperately into the very middle of it.

"I thought maybe you could tell me if this was true or not," he said,
and he drew from his pocket the paper which bore the account of Jed
The Red's victory over The Texan. A hint of a frown appeared upon the
forehead of the man in brown as he took the folded sheet and read
where Denny's finger indicated--the last paragraph of all.

"The winner's share of the receipts amounted to twelve thousand
dollars," was its succinct burden.

He read it through twice, as if searching for any puzzling phrase it
might contain.

"I certainly can," he admitted at last. "I wrote it myself, but it's
no doubt true, for all that. Not a very big purse, of course, but
then, you know, he isn't really championship calibre. He's just a
second-rate hopeful, that's all. It seems hard to find a real one
these days