The last day of February I was sitting in my shack smoking a pipe after supper, when my one-armed friend opened the door a foot, slipped in, and shut it immediately. By the time he looked towards me I knew where my six-shooter was. "That's all right," said I, "but you better stay right there." I intended to take no more chances with that hook. He stood there looking straight at me without winking or offering to move. "What do you want?" I asked. "I want to make up to you for your trouble," said he. "I've got a good thing, and I want to let you in on it." "What kind of a good thing?" I asked. "Treasure," said he. "H'm," said I. I examined him closely. He looked all right enough, neither drunk nor loco. "Sit down," said I--"over there; the other side the table." He did so. "Now, fire away," said I. He told me his name was Solomon Anderson, but that he was generally known as Handy Solomon, on account of his hook; that he had always followed the sea; that lately he had coasted the west shores of Mexico; that at Guaymas he had fallen in with Spanish friends, in company with whom he had visited the mines in the Sierra Madre; that on this expedition the party had been attacked by Yaquis and wiped out, he alone surviving; that his blanket-mate before expiring had told him of gold buried in a cove of Lower California by the man's grandfather; that the man had given him a chart showing the location of the treasure; that he had sewn this chart in the shoulder of his coat, whence his suspicion of me and his being so loco about getting it back. "And it's a big thing," said Handy Solomon to me, "for they's not only gold, but altar jewels and diamonds. It will make us rich, and a dozen like us, and you can kiss the Book on that." "That may all be true," said I, "but why do you tell me? Why don't you get your treasure without the need of dividing it?" "Why, mate," he answered, "it's just plain gratitude. Didn't you save my life, and nuss me, and take care of me when I was nigh killed?" "Look here, Anderson, or Handy Solomon, or whatever you please to call yourself," I rejoined to this, "if you're going to do business with me--and I do not understand yet just what it is you want of me--you'll have to talk straight. It's all very well to say gratitude, but that don't go with me. You've been around here three months, and barring a half-dozen civil words and twice as many of the other kind, I've failed to see any indications of your gratitude before. It's a quality with a hell of a hang-fire to it." He looked at me sideways, spat, and looked at me sideways again. Then he burst into a laugh.