“Look here, 'Lige,” said Harkutt, with a business-like straightening of his lips, “I ain't buyin' any land in Tasajara,--least of all yours on the creek. I've got more invested here already than I'll ever get back again. But I tell you what I'll do. You say you can't go back to your shanty. Well, seein' how rough it is outside, and that the waters of the creek are probably all over the trail by this time, I reckon you're about right. Now, there's five dollars!” He laid down a coin sharply on the counter. “Take that and go over to Rawlett's and get a bed and some supper. In the mornin' you may be able to strike up a trade with somebody else--or change your mind. How did you get here? On your hoss?” “Yes.” “He ain't starved yet?” “No; he can eat grass. I can't.” Either the liquor or Harkutt's practical unsentimental treatment of the situation seemed to give him confidence. He met Harkutt's eye more steadily as the latter went on. “You kin turn your hoss for the night into my stock corral next to Rawlett's. It'll save you payin' for fodder and stablin'.” The man took up the coin with a certain slow gravity which was almost like dignity. “Thank you,” he said, laying the paper on the counter. “I'll leave that as security.” “Don't want it, 'Lige,” said Harkutt, pushing it back. “I'd rather leave it.” “But suppose you have a chance to sell it to somebody at Rawlett's?” continued Harkutt, with a precaution that seemed ironical. “I don't think there's much chance of that.” He remained quiet, looking at Harkutt with an odd expression as he rubbed the edge of the coin that he held between his fingers abstractedly on the counter. Something in his gaze--rather perhaps the apparent absence of anything in it approximate to the present occasion--was beginning to affect Harkutt with a vague uneasiness. Providentially a resumed onslaught of wind and rain against the panes effected a diversion. “Come,” he said, with brisk practicality, “you'd better hurry on to Rawlett's before it gets worse. Have your clothes dried by his fire, take suthin' to eat, and you'll be all right.” He rubbed his hands cheerfully, as if summarily disposing of the situation, and incidentally of all 'Lige's troubles, and walked with him to the door. Nevertheless, as the man's look remained unchanged, he hesitated a moment with his hand on the handle, in the hope that he would say something, even if only to repeat his appeal, but he did not. Then Harkutt opened the door; the man moved mechanically out, and at the distance of a few feet seemed to melt into the rain and darkness. Harkutt remained for a moment with his face pressed against the glass. After an interval he thought he heard the faint splash of hoofs in the shallows of the road; he opened the door softly and looked out.