“H’m!” The tip of the visitor’s nose twitched slightly, the brown eyes widened reflectively; the capable mouth under the brown mustache puckered as if to emit a gentle whistle. “He’ll bring back the change. I’ll take all bets on that. San Simon! H’m!” He shrugged his shoulders, one corner of his mouth pulled down in whimsical fashion, while the opposite eyebrow arched, so giving his face an appearance indescribably odd: the drooping side expressive of profound melancholy, while the rest of his face retained its habitual look of invincible cheerfulness. “San Simon! Dear, oh dear! And I may just nicely contemplate my two thumbs till he gets back with the change--and maybeso the rest!” He elevated the thumbs and cast vigilant glances at each in turn: half-chanting, dreamily: “‘O, she left her Tombstone home For to dwell in San Simon, And she run off with a prairie-navigator.’ --Ran off, I should say.” His nose tweaked again. The clerk was a newcomer in El Paso, hardly yet wonted to the freakish humor and high spirits that there flourish unrebuked--and indeed, unnoticed. But he entered into the spirit of the occasion. “Is there anything I can do?” he inquired. “I am Mr. Hibler’s chief--and only--clerk.” “No-o,” said the visitor doubtfully, letting his eyes wander from his thumbs to the view of white-walled Juarez beyond the river. “No-o--That is, not unless you can sell me his Rainbow ranch and brand for less than they’re worth. Such is my errand--on behalf of Pringle, Beebe, Ballinger and Bransford. I’m Bransford--me.” “Jeff Bransford? Mr. Hibler’s foreman?” asked the young man eagerly. “_Mr._ Jeff Bransford--foreman _for_ Hibler--not of,” amended Bransford gently. His thumbs were still upreared. Becoming suddenly aware of this, he fixed them with a startled gaze. “Say! Take supper with me!” The young man blurted out the words. “Mr. Hibler’s always talking about you and I want to get acquainted with you. Aughinbaugh’s my name.” Bransford sat down heavily, thumbs still erect, elbows well out from his side, and transferred his gaze, with marked respect, to the clerk’s boyish face, now very rosy indeed. Jeff’s eyes grew big and round; his lips were slightly parted; the thumbs drooped, the fingers spread wide apart in mutual dismay. Holding Aughinbaugh’s eyes with his own, he pressed one outspread hand over his heart. Slowly, cautiously, the other hand fumbled in a vest pocket, produced notebook and pencil, spread the book stealthily on his knee and began to write. “‘A good name,’” he murmured, “‘is rather to be chosen than great riches.’” But the owner of the good name was a lad of spirit, and had no mind to submit tamely to such hazing. “See here! What does a cowboy know about the Bible, anyway?” he demanded, glaring indignantly. “I believe you’re a sheep in wolves’ clothing! You don’t talk like a cowboy--or look like a cowboy.”