"Oh, yes, I 've seen you before, I reckon," he acknowledged
noncommitally. "But that does n't necessarily mean we are ready to do
a credit business. Been fired?"

"No; just happen to be short of cash, and need to eat. I 'll hand it
to you tomorrow."

"I 've heard that song before. I reckon you 'll have to try your luck
somewhere else, unless you 've got the price."

"That's the last word, is it?"

"Sure thing," indifferently. "Nothing doing."

Realizing the utter uselessness of argument, or of exhibiting my large
bills, I reached inside my coat, unpinned, and held before him on the
desk a bronze medal, fastened to a colored ribbon.

"Well, is this good for the price?" I questioned. "There 's two of us."

The round-faced cashier bent forward to look, his eyes widening with
aroused interest. Then he glanced up inquiringly into my face.

"Yours?" he asked in open suspicion.

"Ought to be; cost me a Mauser bullet, a dozen bolo cuts, and eight
weeks' hospital."

The cashier was visibly impressed, turning the medal over in his hands.