Miller’s right hand went back to the weapon high on his hip with what might have seemed fair speed to the eyes of some Easterner unversed in the technique of pistol drawing, but a fatal slowness by the standards of the Southwest. Captain Carmichael covered the distance between them in two flying steps and his own pistol leaped into his hand while he was taking the first of them; he easily could have killed the Argentinian where he stood but he did not find it necessary. Miller had not got the new gun clear of his waistband when the Ranger came within arm’s reach. It was just coming free when the barrel of Carmichael’s .45 crashed against the side of his head. He went down limp, his hand slipping from the half-drawn weapon. The captain had it safely out of reach and had satisfied himself that Miller bore no other arms when the man opened his eyes, groaned, touched his head gently with his fingers and made a dizzy effort to sit up. “Steady, hombre!” Carmichael warned him gruffly. “I’ve got your gun. Take it easy. When your brain gets cleared a little we’ll talk.” Miller did not groan again, although his head must have ached terribly. Once he had gained full control of his faculties he did not even wince, and Carmichael noted this with approval; he admired men who could take what punishment came to them without whining. Two or three minutes elapsed before Miller asked: “Do you mind if I sit in a chair, cap’n?” Carmichael succeeded in concealing his surprise that Miller knew him. “Go to it,” he said. He, too, took a seat, his pistol resting on his knee. “You won’t be fool enough to start anything more,” he said, moving it significantly. “If you do, you won’t get away with it. All right. Suppose you tell me----” Miller interrupted him. He was staring at his own wrists, as though puzzled. “I thought there’d be handcuffs on them,” he said. “Much obliged. I’d hate to go out through that lobby handcuffed.” “What did you go to pull a gun on me for, that a way?” the Ranger demanded. “You’re a pretty darn lucky feller not to be dead this minute. You would be, if I couldn’t see, first look, that you hadn’t any speed.” “It’s been twenty-two years since I pulled a gun, or even wore one,” Miller said. “But I wasn’t pulling it on you.” “Of course not.” “No, I wasn’t, really. It was for myself.” He leaned forward and looked into the Ranger’s eyes earnestly. “See here, Carmichael! Couldn’t the thing be fixed that way? I’ll give you my word of honor I don’t want to hurt anybody else. Couldn’t you let me have that pistol of mine back and go out of the room for a minute? That would make the least trouble. For all concerned. Couldn’t it be fixed?” He seemed to think instantly of an amendment to this, and added: “And you could let it stand that I’m a stranger named Andrew Miller--my papers prove it. Couldn’t that be done, too? So that the old business never came out at all? Couldn’t it?” There was sincerity in the man’s eyes. He meant what he said.