Walker was gravely silent a little while, like a man who has just arrived at the proper appreciation of some grave danger which he has escaped. "I've heard of Hun Shanklin a long time, but I never saw him before," he said. "He's killed several men in his time. Do you suppose he knows you shoved his table, or does he think somebody back of you pushed you against it?" "I don't suppose he needs anybody to tell him how it happened," replied the doctor a little crabbedly. "Of course I've got my own notion of it, old feller," prattled Walker; "but they were purty thick around there just then, and shovin' a good deal. I hope he thinks it happened that way. But I know nobody shoved you, and I'm much obliged." "Oh, forget it!" snapped Slavens, thinking of the six hundred dollars which had flown out of the young fellow's hand so lightly. Once he could have bought a very good used automobile for four hundred. "But don't you suppose--" Walker lowered his voice to a whisper, looking cautiously around in the dark as he spoke--"that you stand a chance to hear from Hun Shanklin again?" "Maybe," answered Slavens shortly. "Well, here's where I turn off. I'm stopping at the Metropole down here." "Say!" Walker caught his arm appealingly. "Between you and me I don't like the looks of that dump where I've got a bed. You've been here longer than I have; do you know of any place where a man with all this blamed money burnin' his hide might pull through till morning with it if he happened to slip a cog and go to sleep?" "There's a spare cot in our tent," said the doctor, "and you're welcome to it if you feel that you can trust yourself in our company. We mess together in a sort of communistic fashion." Walker was profuse in his gratitude. "I'll feel easy among decent people!" he declared. "I'm mostly decent myself, and my family's one of the best in this state. Don't you size me up by what you saw me do tonight, will you?" "The best of us slip up once in a while," Slavens said. Walker had some business of clearing his throat. And then: "Are you--that is--is _she_, related to you?" "Oh, no," laughed the doctor. "I'm sorry she isn't." "She's a peach; don't you think so?" "Undoubtedly," admitted the doctor. "Well, here we are--at home." They stood outside a little while, their faces turned toward the town. It was quieting down now. Here and there a voice was raised in drunken song or drunken yelp; here and there a pistol-shot marked the location of some silly fellow who believed that he was living and experiencing all the recklessness of the untamed West. Now and then the dry, shrill laughter of a woman sounded, without lightness, without mirth, as if it came from the lips of one who long, long ago, in the fever of pain and despair, had wept her heart empty of its tears. Now and again, also, a wailing cornet lifted its lone voice, dying away dimly like a disappearing light.