“Oh, well, I’ll not argue with you. It just ruffles you up, without convincing you of your error,” said Jeff. “But you’re wrong.” He turned his face to the fire and lightly hummed the first line of the Cowboy’s Lament: “‘_As I rode down to Latern in Barin_----’” Immediately the long, blue barrel of a .45 nosed inquiringly down the chimney. Jeff disengaged the gun from the hook and slipped it under his coat. He jerked the line slightly; it was drawn up. Jeff left the fire and sat down, facing Mac across the table. “Mac what?” he demanded. “We’ve spent a good many pleasant days together, but I don’t know your name till this very yet. Mac what?” “It is no new thing for men of my blood to be nameless,” said Mac composedly. His voice took on a tone of pride; his bearing was not without a certain dignity. “For generations we were a race proscribit, outlawed, homeless and nameless. The curse of yon wild man Ishmael was ours, and the portion of unblessed Esau--to live by the sword alone, wi’ the dews of heaven for dwelling-place. Who hasna heard of the Gregara?” “Oh! So you’re a MacGregor? Well, Mr. MacGregor, it is likewise said in that same book that they who take up the sword shall perish by the sword,” said Jeff, fondling the gun handle beneath the table. “It seems almost a pity that an exception should be made in your case. For you have your points; I’ll not deny it. Of course, you richly deserve to be hung on the same scaffold with Thorpe. But you are so much the more wholesome scoundrel of the two, so straightforward and thoroughgoing in your villainy, that I must admit that I shall feel a certain regret at seeing you make such an unsatisfactory end. Besides, you don’t deserve it from me. If Thorpe had listened to you I would never have escaped to hang you both.” “Let me tell you then,” said MacGregor with spirit, “that I could hang in no better company. And I shall na stumble on the gallow-steps. Dinna trouble yourself. If I could hang for him it would be na mair than he has deservit at my hands. He has been staunch wi’ me. Wi’ wealth and name to lose, he broke me out of San Saba prison wi’ his own hands, where else I had been rotting now. But we talk foolishness.” He tamped tobacco into his pipe, struck a match and held it over the bowl. “I assure you that I do not,” said Jeff earnestly. “But I’ll change the subject. Did you know there was a much shorter sentence with all the letters in it than we’ve been using? There is. ‘Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs.’ It reached me by R. F. D. So did this!” He rose; the long barrel leaped to level with sinister exultance. “Hold your hands there, Mr. MacGregor--it’ll warm your fingers.”