Charlie tucked in the last hitch on the pack, stuck his foot in the stirrup, and swung up to his saddle on Crepe. The black horse shook his head, jingling the bit, and pawed the hard earth impatiently. Charlie looked down with an expansive grin. “Listen, Elmer,” said he. “I wouldn’t work for you ever again, nohow. I told you, when you were fonchin’ around the other mornin’, that I’d show you. I’ve done it. I rounded up your thieves, while you were runnin’ around in circles, cussin’ the luck. If you feel that you’re under any obligation to me, forget it. I did that little job for nothin’, just to show you I could. “And,” he concluded, “as far as that hard winter thing is concerned, I was born in El Paso. I come up the trail when it was a tough proposition. I’m twenty-six years old, an’, by Judas priest, I ain’t never died a winter yet!” [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June 20, 1927 issue of The Popular Magazine.]