but he did not draw it forth again, for he found
himself looking into the muzzle of an ugly-looking forty-four.

"Drop it!" Nick ordered sharply. "I didn't hurt you, when I might have
done so easily. Are you satisfied?"

The anger of the man seemed to pass as quickly as it had arisen, and he
grinned as he slowly resumed his former position beside the fire.

It was quite true that he was not hurt; it was equally true that he knew
that this stranger might have hurt him severely had he chosen to do so,
and have been entirely excusable for doing it too.

"All right, pard, you pass," he said. "What's your handle?"

"I'm called Dago John by them as know me. What's yours?"

"Hand---- The guns call me Handsome, by way of shortening it. Shake?"

"Yes," said Nick; and they clasped hands for an instant. Then Handsome
added:

"Who might these gazaboes be?"

"Search me, Handsome," growled Nick, resuming his seat, and beginning to
refill his pipe. "If they ain't a part of your outfit, they sure ain't a
part of mine."

Handsome wheeled upon Chick then.

"Who are you?" he demanded, "and where are you from?"

"I'm the 'Chicken'; they know me around Chicago, if they don't here.
Maybe you've heard of me; but it don't make any difference whether you
have or not. I'm the Chicken, all right; and it's Chick for short."
Chick did not so much as move an eyelash while he made this retort; but
his questioner was plainly affected.

"The Chicken!" he exclaimed. "The Chicken is dead. We got it straight.
Shot by----"

"Shot by a cop, eh? That's the story, and it goes, all right. Only it
happens that it wasn't the Chicken as was shot; cause why? The Chicken
is here."

"Who was it, then?"

"It was a pal of mine. A likely gun he was, too. I jest changed hats
with him when he slid under. The rest of the clothes didn't make no
difference. They thought he was the Chicken--and it didn't hurt him any
to have 'em think so, while it helped me a lot."

"All right, Chicken," said Handsome, extending his hand a second time.
"I know about you. You're all right. Who are these other two?"

"Search me, Handsome. I reckon we're all strangers."

Handsome turned to Ten-Ichi.

"What's your handle, covey?" he growled.

Ten-Ichi's answer was a peal of demoniac laughter; and he laughed on and
on interminably, slapping his thighs and flinging his arms around him
after the manner of a man who is warming himself, until the faces of the
others around