"Aw, what's wrong? Isn't that security all right?" urged Pete. "No doubt the security is exactly as you say," said the banker, "but your property is in another county, a long distance from here. We would have to make inquiries and send the mortgage to be filed in Prescott--very inconvenient. Besides, as I told you before, money is tight. We regret that we cannot see our way to accommodate you. This is final!" "Shucks!" said Pete, crestfallen and disappointed; he lingered uncertainly, twisting his hat brim between his hands. "That is final," repeated the banker. "Was there anything else?" "A check to cash," said Pete humbly. He went back into the lobby, much chastened; the spring lock of the door snapped behind him. "Wait on this gentleman, if you please, Mr. Hudson," said Marsh, and busied himself at a cabinet. Hudson rose from his desk and moved across to the cashier's window. His lip curved disdainfully. Mr. Johnson's feet were brisk and cheerful on the tiles. When his face appeared at the window, his hat and the long black cigar were pushed up to angles parallel, jaunty and perilous. He held in his hand a sheaf of papers belted with a rubber band; he slid over the topmost of these papers, face down. "It's endorsed," he said, pointing to his heavy signature. "How will you have it, sir?" Hudson inquired with a smile of mocking deference. "Quick and now," said Pete. Hudson flipped over the check. The sneer died from his face. His tongue licked at his paling lips. "What does this mean?" he stammered. "Can't you read?" said Pete. The cashier did not answer. He turned and called across the room: "Mr. Marsh! Mr. Marsh!" Marsh came quickly, warned by the startled note in the cashier's voice. Hudson passed him the check with hands that trembled a little. The vice-president's face mottled with red and white. The check was made to the order of P.W. Johnson; it was signed by Henry Bergman, sheriff of Pima County, and the richest cowman of the Santa Cruz Valley; the amount was eighty-six thousand dollars. Marsh glowered at Johnson in a cold fury. "Call up Bergman!" he ordered. Hudson made haste to obey. "Oh, that's all right! I'd just as soon wait," said Pete cheerfully. "Hank's at home, anyhow. I told him maybe you'd want to ask about the check." "He should have notified us before drawing out any such amount," fumed Marsh. "This is most unusual, for a small bank like this. He told us he shouldn't need this money until this fall." "Draft on El Paso will do. Don't have to have cash." "All very well--but it will be a great inconvenience to us, just the same." "Really--but that is hardly our affair, is it?" said Pete carelessly. The banker smote the shelf with an angry hand; some of the rouleaus of gold stacked on the inner shelf toppled and fell; gold pieces clattered on the floor. "Johnson, what is your motive? What are you up to?"