"I am goin' to see that you give the gentleman's hoss decent interment," says Gentleman Tim very polite. "Bury a hoss!" growls Texas Pete. But he didn't say any more. Tim cocked his six-shooter. "Perhaps you'd better quit panting and sweat a little," says he. Texas Pete worked hard for a while, for Tim's quietness was beginning to scare him up the worst way. By and by he had got down maybe four or five feet, and Tim got off his hoss. "I think that will do," says he. "You may come out. Billy, my son, cover him. Now, Mr. Texas Pete," he says, cold as steel, "there is the grave. We will place the hoss in it. Then I intend to shoot you and put you in with the hoss, and write you an epitaph that will be a comfort to such travellers of the Trail as are honest, and a warnin' to such as are not. I'd as soon kill you now as an hour from now, so you may make a break for it if you feel like it." He stooped over to look into the hole. I thought he looked an extra long time, but when he raised his head his face had changed complete. "March!" says he very brisk. We all went back to the shack. From the corral Tim took Texas Pete's best team and hitched her to the old schooner. "There," says he to the man. "Now you'd better hit the trail. Take that whisky keg there for water. Good-bye." We sat there without sayin' a word for some time after the schooner had pulled out. Then Tim says, very abrupt: "I've changed my mind." He got up. "Come on, Billy," says he to me. "We'll just leave our friend tied up. I'll be back to-morrow to turn you loose. In the meantime it won't hurt you a bit to be a little uncomfortable, and hungry--and thirsty." We rode off just about sundown, leavin' Texas Pete lashed tight. Now all this knocked me hell-west and crooked, and I said so, but I couldn't get a word out of Gentleman Tim. All the answer I could get was just little laughs. We drawed into the ranch near midnight, but next mornin' Tim had a long talk with the boss, and the result was that the whole outfit was instructed to arm up with a pick or a shovel apiece, and to get set for Texas Pete's. We got there a little after noon, turned the old boy out--without firearms--and then began to dig at a place Tim told us to, near that grave of Texas Pete's. In three hours we had the finest water-hole developed you ever want to see. Then the boss stuck up a sign that said: PUBLIC WATER-HOLE. WATER, FREE. "Now you old skin," says he to Texas Pete, "charge all you want to on your own property. But if I ever hear of your layin' claim to this other hole, I'll shore make you hard to catch." Then we rode off home. You see, when Gentleman Tim inspected that grave, he noted indications of water; and it struck him that runnin' the old renegade out of business was a neater way of gettin' even than merely killin' him.