and living in Sonora. It
didn't take Diaz long to find out that he could use him. Waring was a
wizard with a gun--and he had the nerve back of it. But Waring quit
Diaz, for Jim wasn't that kind of a killer. I guess he found plenty of
work down there. He never was one to lay around living on his reputation
and waiting for nothing to happen. He kept his reputation sprouting new
shoots right along--and that ain't all joke, neither."

"Speakin' in general, could he beat you to it with a gun, Pat?"

"Speaking in general--I reckon he could."

"Them rurales are kind of careless--ridin' over the line and not
stoppin' by to make a little explanation."

The lank man nodded. "There's a time coming when they'll do more than
that. That old man down south is losing his grip. I don't say this for
general information. And if Jim Waring happens to ride into town, just
tell him who you are and pinch him for smuggling; unless I see him
first."

"What did I ever do to you?"

Pat laughed silently. "Oh, he ain't a fool. It's only a fool that'll
throw away a chance to play safe."

"You got me interested in that Waring hombre. I'll sure nail him like
you said; but if he goes for his gun I don't want you plantin' no
cucumber seed on my restin'-place. Guess I'll finish those reports."

The lank man yawned, and, rising, strode to the window. The assistant
sauntered to the inner office and drew up to his desk. "Pablo's whiskey
is rotten!" he called over his shoulder. The lank collector smiled.

The talk about Waring and Las Cruces had stirred slumbering memories;
memories of night rides in New Mexico, of the cattle war, of blazing
noons on the high mesas and black nights in huddled adobe towns; Las
Cruces, Albuquerque, Caliente, Santa Fe--and weary ponies at the
hitching-rails.

Once, on an afternoon like this, he had ridden into town with a prisoner
beside him, a youth whose lightning-swift hand had snuffed out a score
of lives to avenge the killing of a friend. The collector recalled that
on that day he had ridden his favorite horse, a deep-chested buckskin,
slender legged, and swift, with a strain of thoroughbred.

Beyond the little square of window through which he gazed lay the same
kind of a road--dusty, sun-white, edged with low brush. And down the
road, pace for pace with his thoughts, strode a buckskin horse, ridden
by a man road-weary, gray with dust. Beside him rode a youth, his head
bowed and his hands clasped on the sadd