"Fair and square! Do you mean to say Humpy Joe run that foot-race on the square?" "I never said nothin' like that whatever. I mean we bet it, and we lost it. Listen! There goes Carara's piece!" Out past the corral floated the announcement in a man's metallic syllables: "_The Baggage Coach Ahead,_ as sung by Helena Mora for the Echo Phonograph, of New York and Pa-a-aris!" From the dusk to the right of the two listeners now issued soft Spanish phrases. "_Madre de Dios!_ 'The Baggage Car in Front!' T'adora Mora! God bless 'er!" During the rendition of this affecting ballad the two cow-men remained draped uncomfortably over the barbed-wire barrier, lost in rapturous enjoyment. When the last note had died away, Stover roused himself reluctantly. "It's time we was turnin' in." He called softly, "Hey, Mex!" "_Si, Senor!_" "Come on, you and Cloudy. _Vamos!_ It's ten o'clock." He turned his back on the Centipede Ranch that housed the treasure, and in company with Willie, made his way to the ponies. Two other figures joined them, one humming in a musical baritone the strains of the song just ended. "Cut that out, Mex! They'll hear us," Stover cautioned. "_Caramba!_ This t'ing is brek my 'eart," said the Mexican, sadly. "It seem like the Senorita Mora is sing that song to me. Mebbe she knows I'm set out 'ere on cactus an' listen to her. Ah, I love that Senorita ver' much." The little man with the glasses began to swear in his high falsetto. His ear had caught the phonograph operator in another musical mistake. "That horn-toad let Mrs. Melby die again to-night," said he. "It's sure comin' to a runnacaboo between him and me. If somebody don't kill him pretty soon, he'll wear out that machine before we git it back." "Humph! It don't look like we'd ever get it back," said Stover. One of the four sighed audibly, then vaulting into his saddle, went loping away without waiting for his companions. "Cloudy's sore because they didn't play _Navajo,"_ said Willie. "Well, I don't blame 'em none for omittin' that war- dance. It ain't got the class of them other pieces. While it's devised to suit the intellect of an Injun, perhaps; it ain't in the runnin' with _The Holy City,_ which tune is the sweetest and sacredest ever sung." Carara paused with a hand upon the neck of his cayuse. "Eet is not so fine as _The Baggage Car in Front,"_ he declared. "It's got it beat a mile!" Willie flashed back, harshly. "Here you!" exclaimed Stover, "no arguments. We all have our favorites, and it ain't up to no individual to force his likes and dislikes down no other feller's throat." The two men he addressed mounted their broncos stiffly. "I repeat," said Willie: "_The Holy City_, as sung by Mrs. Melby, is the swellest tune that ever hit these parts." Carara muttered something in Spanish which the others could not understand.