than evened up; for George had sneaked up
on an unarmed man and rolled down boulders from above, but he had
outfaced him, man to man and gun to gun, and kicked him down the dump to
boot. Yes, the Widow might well laugh, for it would be many a long day
before Stiff Neck George heard the last of that affair.

"And old Blount," laughed the Widow, "he was right there and saw it--his
own hired bully, and all. Say, now Wiley, tell me all about it--what did
Blount have to say? Did he tell you it was all a mistake? Yes, that's
what he tells everybody, every time he gets into trouble; but he can't
make excuses to me. Do you know what he's done? He's tied up all my
stock as security for eight hundred dollars! What's eight hundred
dollars--I turned it all in to get the best of my diamonds out of pawn.
It made me feel so bad, seeing that diamond ring of yours; I just
couldn't help getting them out. And now I'm flat and he's holding all my
stock for a miserable little eight hundred dollars!"

She ended up strong, but Wiley sensed a touch and his expressions of
sympathy were guarded.

"Now, you're a business man," she went on unheedingly. "I'll tell you
what I'll do--you lend me the money to get back that stock and I'll sell
it all to your father!"

"To my father!" echoed Wiley and then his face turned grim and he
laughed at some hidden joke. "Not much," he said, "I like the Old Man
too much. You'd better sell it back to Blount."

"To Blount? Why, hasn't your father been hounding me for months to get
his hands on that stock? Well, I'd like to know then what you think
you're doing? Have you gone back on your promise, or what?"

"I never made any promise," returned Wiley pacifically. "It was my
father that made the offer."

"Oh, fiddlesticks!" exploded the Widow. "Well, what's the
difference--you're working hand and glove!"

"Not at all," corrected Wiley, "the Old Man is raising cattle. You can't
get him to look at a mine."

"Well, he offered to buy my stock!" exclaimed the Widow, badly
flustered. "I'd like to know what this means?"

"It's no use talking," returned Wiley wearily, "I've told you a thousand
times. If you send your stock to John Holman at Vegas, he'll give you
ten cents a share; but _I_ won't give you a cent."

"Do you mean to say," demanded the Widow incredulously, "that you don't
want that stock?"

"That's it," assented Wiley. "I've just sold my tax title for a hundred
dollars, to Blount."

"Oh, this wi