?"

"You are a rum un," said Greenfield with a broken laugh. The words began
to come shorter and with effort. "Excitement, Bub! Deviltry and
cussedness!"

"How do you feel, Bucky?" asked Frawley.

"Half in hell already--stewing for my sins--but it's not that--it's--"

"What, Bucky?"

"That bug! Me, Bucky Greenfield--to go down and out on account of a
bug--a little squirmy bug! But I swear even he couldn't have done it if
the desert hadn't put me out of business first! No, by God! I'm not
downed so easy as that!"

Frawley, in a lame attempt to show his sympathy, went closer to the
dying man:

"I say, Bucky."

"Shout away."

"Wouldn't you like to go out, standing, on your feet--with your boots
on?"

Greenfield laughed, a contented laugh.

"What's the matter, pal?" said Frawley, pausing in surprise.

"You darned old Englishman," said Greenfield affectionately. "Say, Bub."

"Yes, Bucky."

"The dinkies are all right--but--but a Yank, a real Yank, would 'a' got
me in six months."

"All right, Bucky. Shall I raise you up?"

"H'ist away."

"Would you like the feeling of a gun in your hand again?" said Frawley,
raising him up.

This time Greenfield did not laugh, but his hand closed convulsively
over the butt, and he gave a savage sigh of delight. His limbs
contracted violently, his head bore heavily on the shoulder of Frawley,
who heard him whisper again:

"A bug--a little--"

Then he stopped and appeared to listen. Outside, the evening was soft
and stirring. Through the door the children appeared, tumbling over one
another, in grotesque attitudes.

Suddenly, as though in the breeze he had caught the sound of a step,
Greenfield jerked almost free of Frawley's arms, shuddered, and fell
back rigid. The pistol, flung into the air, twirled, pitched on the
floor, and remained quiet.

Frawley placed the body back on the bed of leaves, listened a moment,
and rose satisfied. He threw a blanket over the face, picked up the
revolver, searched a moment for his hat, and went out to arrange with
the Mexican for the night. In a moment he returned and took a seat in
the corner, and began carefully to jot down the details on a piece of
paper. Presently he paused and looked reflectively at the bed of leaves.

"It's been a good three years," he said reflectively. He considered a
moment, rapping the pencil against his teeth, and repeated: "A good
three years. I think when I get home I'll ask for a week or so to
s