“I know that Bill don’t like that rattler, but he ain’t never been able to figure out jist how to whip the crippled crawler. I just says to m’self, ‘Bill, yo’re a goner this time, if yuh don’t back-track real pronto.’ But Bill don’t back-track. He staggers in close, and that dog-gone rattler hits him square in the crop. Then he rears back and socks poor old Bill another. I kinda shut m’ eyes and turns away. I--I love that old featherless son-of-a-gun.” Frijole choked a little. Henry was leaning across the desk. “So Bill died, eh?” he said. “Nossir,” replied Frijole, “he didn’t. Bill walked away, kinda proud-like and went down to the corral--and yuh don’t have to believe me, Henry, but a few moments later that big rattler went into convulsions, and died on the spot.” “Slim!” exclaimed Judge sharply. Slim jerked convulsively. “Slim, did you see all this?” asked Judge. “No, I didn’t exactly see it, Judge,” replied Slim soberly. “Yuh see, I was out in the blacksmith shop, tryin’ to make a couple new iron lids for the cook-stove. When we was makin’ this mash, it kinda boiled over on the stove and et up two lids, jist like a Piute eats hotcakes. Why, I jist got in the steam of that batch, and it et all the rivets out of m’ overalls.” Henry put one hand on the jug and shut his eyes. “I can see it all,” he said soberly. “A wonderful tale--and well told, Frijole. Thanks to you, Slim, for the additions. Judge, if you will be kind enough to procure the cups--” The testing of a new batch of Frijole’s distillation was a ceremony. They drank from tin cups which held almost a half-pint. Sometimes Henry or Judge offered a toast, but usually they merely nodded to each other, held the cups high, and drank swiftly. This was no liquor to be sipped. For several moments after the drink no one spoke. In fact, it was a physical impossibility. Slim’s whisper came first--“Don’t anybody light a match!” Gradually as they recovered speech and action, Henry said, “That is proof positive, gentlemen.” “What does it prove?” husked Judge. “It proves the story of Bill Shakespeare and the snake, sir.” “And I,” said Judge soberly, “feel sorry for the snake.” “And why, may I ask, sir?” “For wasting its efforts. One strike would have been enough.” * * * * * Rumors of new, rich strikes were common in Tonto City, most of them were false, but a man brought a story of a rich strike to the sheriff’s office. Old Ben Todd, a veteran prospector of Wild Horse Valley, had struck a bonanza. He was spending raw gold in the saloons; not the washed nuggets of a placer mine, but chunks of gold from a quartz vein. Henry tried to find Old Ben. He liked the eccentric old-timer, and had done favors for him. Not that Henry wanted any part of Old Ben’s find, but did consider that the old man might need protection.