he drank, he pondered
on why water should not be an antidote for the poisons that lurk in
whiskey flasks. Then he wondered why such foolish conceits at such times
persist in shouldering death itself out of a man's thoughts. And
meanwhile, there stood the precursor of his end, in the emblematic
person of a very brown John the Baptist. The fellow's gorgeous red
jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a sordid dirty shirt. He was officer of
the guard, and had a curiosity as to how a Gringo about to be shot would
act. He waited clumsily, lantern in hand. But he was disappointed. There
seemed to be nothing out of the commonplace. Some condemned Mexican,
though a monotonously familiar spectacle, would yet have been more
entertaining.

Driscoll looked at him over the botellon. That earthen bottle had not
left the prisoner's lips. It had stopped there, poised aloft by an idea.

"See here," Driscoll complained, "where's the rest of the water I'm to
have?"

"Of what water, senor?"

"For my bath, of course. Don't I die to-morrow?"

"Yes, but----"

"Here, this wine is too new for me. Drink it yourself, if you want."

"Many thanks, senor, with pleasure. But a bath? I don't understand."

"No? Don't you Mexicans ever bathe before you die?"

"We send for the padre."

"Oh, that's it! And he spiritually washes your sins away? But suppose
you couldn't get your padre?"

The Indian shuddered. "Ai, Maria purisima, one's soul would go to
everlasting torment!"

"There! Now you can understand why I count so much on ablution. It's
absolution."

The native readily believed. Like others of his class, he thought all
Protestants pagans, and none Catholic but a Mexican. "Must be something
like John the Baptist's day, verdad, senor?" he said. "On that holy day,
once a year, we must all take a bath."

"Quite right too," Driscoll returned soberly. "A man should go through
most anything for his religion.--Haven't noticed my horse there, have
you, Johnny?" The guard pricked up his ears. "Of course not," Driscoll
went on, "you're worrying about my soul instead. Well, so am I. We
Americans, you know, save our yearly baths for one big solemn final one,
just before we die. And if I don't get mine to-night, I'll be
associating with you unshrived Mexicans hereafter, and that would be
pretty bad, wouldn't it? It's what made me think of my horse there. That
horse, Johnny, is heavy on my soul. He's most too heavy to wash away.
Now, I'm not going to te