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 Fé--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 saddle-horn as though manacled.

"Jack!"