“It’s like this,” said Jones cheerfully, pressing along the narrow way a yard behind: “I had a nice little bunch of cows--nigh onto two hundred--out in the Monuments. And Bennett, he was projecting about like a roarin’ lion out there; and he says: ‘Jones, why don’t you buy the Bar Nothing brand?’ ‘No money,’ says I.... I say, Baca, don’t go so fast! This ain’t no Marathon! Lonesome, shivery place, isn’t it?” The silent figure walked still swifter. “Oh, all right, then! ‘I’ll lend you the money,’ says Bennett, ‘an’ take a mortgage on both brands.’ ‘There’ll come a drought,’ says I, ‘and them cattle will lay down and die on me, a lot of ’em; and I’ll find myself in a fix.’ And he did, and they did, and I did.” No word from Baca. In the black shadow of the dark unlighted houses he passed swiftly and unhesitatingly. Jones continued: “Since that I paid him all but eighteen hundred-odd; and now the mortgage comes due pretty sudden, and I stand to lose both brands.... Say, Baca, where’re you takin’ me to? Some gang of thugs? You can do that all right--but I’ll get you first and I’ll get you hard, and I’ll get you sure! Don’t make any mistake!” Baca gave way to his feelings. “Oh, bother!” he said, and stopped, irresolute. “What do you mean anyway, actin’ the way you do?” demanded Jones, mopping his forehead. “Wouldn’t it sound silly, if I lay a-dyin’, for you to threaten me with jail and shootin’ and law? They’d sound real futile, wouldn’t they? Well, I’m dying right now. I’ve been a long time at it; but there ain’t no cure for what ails me but death. I refer, of course, to the malady of living.” “Damn your eyes!” cried the exasperated King of Saragossa; and he began rapidly to retrace his steps. “And so,” continued the dying man, keeping pace, “I don’t never back up. When I start out to blackmail a man he might just as well be nice about it, ’cause I’m going to blackmail him.” Despite himself, Baca had to laugh. “What are you going to blackmail me for?” “About two thousand,” said Jones. “But what have I done?” “Good Lord, man!” said Jones blankly. “I don’t know!” “Come!” said Baca, and clapped his persecutor on the back. “I like a brave man, even if he is a damned fool! Come home to supper with me. I’ve got a little bachelor establishment beyond the Park, with an old Mexican _hombre_ who can give you the best meal in town.” “You’re on! And after supper, then we can fix up that mortgage, can’t we? I want to specify that now, so I can eat your salt without prejudice.” * * * * * “And now,” said Baca, replenishing his guest’s wine-glass, “about the blackmail. Of what particular misdeed do you accuse me?” “When you asked me to supper,” said Jones thoughtfully, “you virtually admitted there was something. You see that? But I don’t like to intrude on your private affairs--to butt in, as we say in Harvard.” The host fixed keen eyes on him. “As we say in Harvard? Yes,” he purred. “Go on!”