s fat, oily face in his hands and his elbows on the bar,
grunted monosyllables, occasionally nodding as the Americano forced his
acknowledgment of a highly obvious platitude.

And the assistant collector, listening for a chance word that would
explain the presence of armed Mexico on American soil, knew that the
proprietor was also listening for that same word that might explain
their unprecedented visit. Presently the assistant collector of customs
began a tirade against Nogales, its climate, institutions, and citizens
collectively and singly. The proprietor awoke to argument. Their talk
grew loud. The assistant collector thumped the bar with his fist, and
ceased talking suddenly. A subdued buzz came from the corner where the
rurales sat, and he caught the name "Waring."

"And the whole town ain't worth the matches to burn it up," he
continued. "If it wasn't for Pat, I'd quit right now." And he emptied
his glass and strode from the room.

Back in the office, he flung his hat on the table and rumpled his hair.
"Those coyotes," he said casually, "are after some one called Waring.
Pablo's whiskey is rotten."

The collector's long legs unfolded, and he sat up, yawning. "Jim Waring
isn't in town," he said as though to himself.

"Pat, you give me a pain," said the assistant, grinning.

"Got one myself," said the collector unsmilingly. "Cucumbers."

"You're the sweetest liar for a thousand miles either side of the line.
There isn't even the picture of a cucumber in this sun-blasted town."

"Isn't, eh? Look here!" And the lank man pulled open a drawer in the
desk. The collector fumbled among some papers and drew out a bulky seed
catalogue, illustrated in glowing tints.

"Oh, I'll buy," laughed the assistant. "I reckon if I asked for a
picture of this man Waring that's wanted by those nickel-plated coyotes,
you'd fish it up and never sweat a hair."

"I could," said the collector, closing the drawer.

"Here, smoke one of mine for a change. About that picture. I met Jim
Waring in Las Cruces. He was a kid then, but a comer. Had kind of
light, curly hair. His face was as smooth as a girl's. He wasn't what
you'd call a dude, but his clothes always looked good on him. Wimmin
kind of liked him, but he never paid much attention to them. He worked
for me as deputy a spell, and I never hired a better man. But he
wouldn't stay with one job long. When Las Cruces got quiet he pulled his
freight. Next I heard of him he was married