“It’s my notion that you intended to take this little wad and skip for Old Mex--maybe selling them El Paso securities before we missed you. I beat you to it, old hand! You can settle with my lovely companions on Monday. I reckon they’ll be pretty sore, too, after all that big talk they made--Scanlon especially. We have about twenty-six thousand in our safe and I’m taking that. Well, I gotta go. S’long!” But he came back at once. Bennett could not see his face; but the man’s voice, for the first time since the hold-up, carried a human note. “I kind of hate it, too--you layin’ here tied up this way all that time. It’s going to be pretty tough. You’ll have to overlook it, old man. There wasn’t any other way. It was that or kill you. If it’ll make you any easier in your mind you’ve got my dyin’ oath that I’d ’a’ killed you in a holy minute if you hadn’t come through, or if you’d ’a’ made one wrong move. Bein’ tied up is a lot better than being dead.” A new thought struck him. “I’ve got it!” he cried triumphantly. “Quick as I get to Juarez I’ll wire somebody to let you go. That won’t be so bad. I won’t waste a minute. Buck up! I’m gone now.” Once in the open Beck trod with a jubilant step. It was darker now and raining steadily; the smell of dawn was in the air; he quickened his pace. No sign of life was on the street. The gambler came to his place of business, took out his key ring, and entered noiselessly. He worked swiftly. A through freight went south before daylight, stopping at Saragossa for water; he would have time to make it nicely. Very quickly the money in the safe was stowed in his traveling bag. There was a little silver in stacks. Though the bag was quite heavy enough already--for much of the money had been gold pieces--Beck took the silver too. Then a better thought came to him. He counted out nine silver dollars and put them back in the safe; he laid a blank check, face down, on the floor of the safe, with a dollar on each end like paper weights. And in the slender lance of light cast by the electric flash he penciled a brief note: _Dear Scanlon_: I am leaving you nine dollars to send me a postcard. He snapped out the flashlight, stuck it in his pocket, and tiptoed to the front door, laughing softly. Man is the slave of habit. Outside Beck turned to lock the door--a most illogical thing to do. He placed the bag between his feet, fumbled for the keyhole and inserted the key. Then he stiffened. He felt the cold muzzle of a gun against his temple, and a gentle voice said: “Let me carry your bag.” Frozen with horror, the gambler felt a hand remove his own gun and the flashlight. “What’s this?” demanded the voice. “Oh, I see--a searchlight! That’ll be nice. Keep your hands right where they are!” The hand felt for further weapons. “All right!” said the voice. “Now open up and we’ll go upstairs. You tote the baggage. Close the door gently, please. March!” There was nothing else to do; so Beck marched.