think, as
long as there's somebody around to tell him what to do, and sort of back
him up. Nick, though, can do two men's work any day in the year."

"But it's strange that a man like Nick would have anything to do with
such a creature as that poor specimen," mused Patches. "Are they related
in any way?"

"Nobody knows," answered Phil. "Joe first showed up at Prescott about
four years ago with a man by the name of Dryden, who claimed that Joe
was his son. They camped just outside of town, in some dirty old tents,
and lived by picking up whatever was lying around loose. Dryden wouldn't
work, and, naturally, no one would have Joe. Finally Dryden was sent up
for robbing a store, and Joe nearly went with him. They let him off, I
believe, because it was proved pretty well that he was only Dryden's
tool, and didn't have nerve enough to do any real harm by himself. He
drifted around for several months, living like a stray cur, until Nick
took him in tow. Nick treats him shamefully, abuses him like a beast,
and works him like a slave. The poor devil stays on with him because he
doesn't know what else to do, I suppose."

"Is he always like we saw him to-day?" asked Patches, who seemed
strangely interested in this bit of human drift. "Doesn't he ever talk?"

"Oh, yes, he'll talk all right, when Nick isn't around, or when there
are not too many present. Get off somewhere alone with him, after he
gets acquainted a little, and he's not half such bad company as he
looks. I reckon that's the main reason why Nick keeps him. You see, no
decent cow-puncher would dare work at Tailholt Mountain, and a man gets
mighty lonesome living so much alone. But Joe never talks about where he
came from, or who he is; shuts up like a clam if you so much as mention
anything that looks like you were trying to find out about him. He's not
such a fool as he looks, either, so far as that goes, but he's always
got that sneaking, coyote sort of look, and whatever he does he does in
that same way."

"In other words," commented Patches thoughtfully, "poor Joe must have
someone to depend on; taken alone he counts no more than a cipher."

"That's it," said Phil. "With somebody to feed him, and think for him,
and take care of him, and be responsible for him, in some sort of a way,
he makes almost one."

"After all, Phil," said Patches, with bitter sarcasm, "poor Yavapai Joe
is not so much different from hundreds of men that I know. By their
standards he