"Mackenzie is my name," said he, all of the suspicion gone out of him, deep, feeling admiration in its place, "and if you was to happen up to southern Montana you'd find me pretty well known. I've got fifty thousand sheep on the range up there, average four dollars a head, and I'd hand half of 'em over to you right now if you'd show me how you turned that trick. That was the slickest thing I ever saw!" "It wouldn't do you any good at all to know how it was done," said Slavens, "for it was a trick for the occasion and the man we worked it on. The thing for us to do is to go to some decent, quiet place and divide this money." "Give me my two hundred and the stake," said Mackenzie, "and keep the rest. I don't need money; I've got two national banks full of it up there in Montana now." "Lord knows I need it!" said the doctor, beginning to sweat over the nearness to visions which he once believed he should never overhaul. He stepped along so fast in his eagerness to come up with and lay hands on them that Mackenzie was thrown into a trot to keep up. "I don't know who you are or where you came from," said Mackenzie, "but you're not a crook, anyhow. That money's yours; you got it out of him as beautiful as I ever saw a man skinned in my day. But if you don't want to tip it off, that's your business." "It was a chance," said the doctor, recalling a night beside the river and the words of Agnes when she spoke of that theme, "and I had the sense and the courage for once to take it." In the café-tent where they had taken their supper they sat with a stew of canned oysters between them, and made the division of the money which the lost die had won. Mackenzie would accept no more than the two hundred dollars which he had lost on Shanklin's game, together with the five hundred and ten advanced in the hope of regaining it. It was near midnight when they parted, Mackenzie to seek his lodging-place, Dr. Slavens to make the rounds of the stores in the hope of finding one open in which he could buy a new outfit of clothing. They were all closed and dark. The best that he could do toward improving his outcast appearance was to get shaved. This done, he found lodging in a place where he could have an apartment to himself, and even an oil-lamp to light him to his rest. Sitting there on the side of his bed, he explored the pockets of Hun Shanklin's coat. There were a number of business cards, advertising various concerns in Comanche, which Shanklin had used for recording his memoranda; two telegrams, and a printed page of paper, folded into small space. There was nothing more. The paper was an extra edition of _The Chieftain_, such as the doctor had grown sadly familiar with on the day of the drawing. With a return of the heartsickness which he had felt that day, he unfolded it far enough to see the date. It was the day of the drawing. He dropped the half-folded sheet to the floor and took up the telegrams.