"I know Mr. White, you see. And Mr. White seems to think that at about the time the bank was robbed you were--in a garden!" Charley's voice was edged with faint mockery. "Huh!" said Jeff, startled. "Who in hell is Mr. White?" "Mr. White--in hell--is the devil!" said Charley. At this unexpected disclosure Jeff lashed his horse to a gallop--his spurs, you remember, being certain feet under the Ophir dump--and strove to bring his thoughts to bear upon this new situation. He slowed down and Charley drew up beside him. "You seem to have stayed quite a while--in a garden," suggested Charley. "That tongue of yours is going to get you into trouble yet," said Jeff. "You'll never live to be grayheaded." Charley was not to be daunted. "Say, Jeff, she's pretty easy to get acquainted with, what? And those eyes of hers--a little on the see-you-later style, aren't they?" Jeff turned in his saddle. "Now you look here, Mr. Charley Gibson! I'm under obligations to you, and so on--but I've heard all of that kind of talk that's good--_sabe_?" "Oh, I know her," persisted Charley. "Know her by heart--know her like a book. She made a fool of me, too. She drives 'em single, double, tandem, random and four abreast!" "You little beast!" Jeff launched his horse at the traducer, but Gibson spurred aside. "Stop now, Jeffy! Easy does it! I've got a gun!" "Shut your damn head then! Gun or no gun, don't you take that girl's name in your mouth again, or----Hark! What's that?" It was a clatter far behind--a ringing of swift hoofs on hard ground. "By George, they're coming! Griffith will be a man yet!" said Jeff approvingly. "Come on, kid; we've got to burn the breeze! I suppose that talk of yours is only your damn fool idea of fun, but I don't like it. Cut it out, now, and ride like a drunk Indian!" He laughed loud and long. "Think o' that candle, will you?--burning away with a clear, bright, steady flame, and nobody within ten miles of it!" They raced side by side; but Gibson, heedless of their perilous situation, or perhaps taking advantage of it, took a malicious delight in goading Jeff to madness; and he refused either to be silent or to talk about candles, notwithstanding Jeff's preference for that topic. "I'm not joking! I'm telling you for your own good." Here the tormentor prudently fell back half a length and raised his voice so as to be heard above the flying feet. "Hasn't she gone back to New York, I'd like to know, and left you to get out of it the best way you can? She could 'a' stayed if she'd wanted to. Don't tell me! Haven't I seen how she bosses her mother round? No, sir! She's willing to let you hang to save herself a little slander--or, more likely, a little talk!" Jeff whirled his horse to his haunches, but once more Gibson was too quick for him. Gibson's horse was naturally the nimbler of the two, even without the advantage of spurs.