“The other one now,” commanded Bellyful. This was a guess, but a correct one. “Leave ’em both drop down.” Both dropped down. “Go on strippin’.” The money followed, a good deal of it, and Aaron made a gesture of emptiness. “That all?” “Yes, indeed, young man.” “Then I want the rest of it.” “You’ve got the rest. You’ve got the whole. The game ain’t what it used to be, and I have partners; they--” “I’ll partner you. Get down. Get down quick.” Evidently a compromise was the very most a poor shell-game man in this hapless crisis could hope for. Aaron got down and addressed the road-agent. “See here, beau,” he began, “you and me oughtn’t to be hostile. In our trade we can’t afford it. You and me’s brothers.” “Don’t you call me brother. I don’t lie. I say ‘hand it over’ and folks ain’t deceived. I’m an outlaw and, maybe, my life is forfeit. But you pretend you’re an honest man and that your dirty game is square. Throw it all down, or I’ll tear it out of you.” [Illustration: How could he know that Bellyful had only become a road-agent in the last ten minutes?] Aaron threw it all down. Then he was allowed to go his ways, seeking more fools to cheat. Up in the air the eagle sailed. He was still looking down upon clots of cactus, thickets of mesquite, and skeletons of cattle. He also saw a horseman going slowly one way, and a horseman going slowly the other. In time many miles lay between them, and the forks of the road were as silent and empty of motion as the rest of Repose Valley. * * * * * To me, listening, Scipio Le Moyne narrated the foregoing anecdote while he lay in hospital, badly crumpled up by a bad horse. Upon the day following I brought him my written version. “Yes,” he said musingly, when I had finished reading it to him, “that--happened--eight--years--ago. You’ve told it about correct--as to facts.” “What’s wrong, then?” “Oh--I ain’t competent to pass on your language. The facts are correct. What are you lookin’ at me about?” “Well--the ending.” “Ending?” “Well--I don’t like the way Bellyful just went off and prospered and--” “But he did.” “And never felt sorry or--” “But he didn’t.” “Well--” “D’you claim he’d oughtn’t? Think of him! Will y’u please to think of him after that shell game? He begging honest work and denied all over, everywhere, till his hat and his clothes and his boots were in holes, and his body was pretty near in holes--think of him, just a kind of hollo’ vessel of hunger lying in that stable while the shell-game cheat goes off with his pockets full of gold.” Scipio spoke with heat. “Yes, I know. But, if Bellyful afterward could only feel sorry and try--” “Are you figuring to fix that up?”--he was still hotter--“because I forbid you to monkey with the truth. Because I _never_ was sorry.” “_What?_”