to risk getting caught with a
share of the money in his possession, provided his plan was carried to
a conclusion. He anticipated that John Corliss would be away from the
ranch frequently, owing to the threatened encroachment of Loring's
sheep on the west side of the Concho River. Tony, the Mexican, would
be left in charge of the ranch. Will Corliss knew the combination of
the safe--of that Fadeaway was pretty certain. Should they get the
money, people in the valley would most naturally suspect the brother.
And Fadeaway reasoned that John Corliss would take no steps to recover
the money should suspicion point to his brother having stolen it.
Meanwhile he would wait.

Shortly after Fadeaway had gone out, Will Corliss got up and sauntered
to the street. He gazed up and down the straggling length of Antelope
and cursed. Then he walked across to the sheriff's office.

The sheriff motioned him to a chair, which he declined. "Better sit
down, Billy. I want to talk to you."

"Haven't got time," said Corliss. "You know what I came for."

"That's just what I want to talk about. See here, Billy, you've been
hitting it up pretty steady this week. Here's the prospect. John told
me to hand you five a day for a week. You got clothes, grub, and a
place to sleep and all paid for. You could go out to the ranch if you
wanted to. The week is up and you're goin' it just the same. If you
want any more money you'll have to see John. I give you all he left
with me."

"By God, that's the limit!" exclaimed Corliss.

"I guess it is, Billy. Have a cigar?"

Corliss flung out of the office and tramped across to the saloon. He
called for whiskey and, seating himself at one of the tables, drank
steadily. Fadeaway wasn't such a fool, after all. But robbery! Was
it robbery? Eighteen hundred dollars would mean San Francisco . . .
Corliss closed his eyes. Out of the red mist of remembrance a girl's
face appeared. The heavy-lidded eyes and vivid lips smiled. Then
other faces, and the sound of music and laughter. He nodded to them
and raised his glass. . . . As the raw whiskey touched his lips the
red mist swirled away. The dingy interior of the saloon, the booted
and belted riders, the grimy floor littered with cigarette-ends, the
hanging oil-lamp with its blackened chimney, flashed up and spread
before him like the speeding film of a picture, stationary upon the
screen of his vision, yet trembling toward a change of