"Mistake or not, you will have to pay or go back to town with us; that is all there is to it. I believe you are the Harrison I want." "Oh, Mr. Harrison," said Nell, "do pay this man and let us go on; you can easily recover the money when you go back to town." "Yes," said Mr. Stiversant, "that certainly is the best way to settle the matter; it is, undoubtedly, a case of mistaken identity, but this man is evidently acting in good faith, and you will have no difficulty in straightening matters upon your return at Flagstaff." Harrison's face was very red, and he looked and acted ugly; but this man evidently meant business, and there was no way out of it but to pay the money, which he did with a very bad grace, taking a receipt made out to Wendell Harrison, alias "Fighting Harrison of Arizona." "An exciting incident," said Nell, as the party rode away. "Yes," said Harrison, "but one that might just as well have been left out of the programme." The stage moved on, but Harrison seemed uneasy; every few minutes he mopped his face with his handkerchief and pressed his hand to his head as if in pain. Visions of the little reception committee some few miles ahead were constantly in his mind. What would he say and do when the stage was stopped, and he received his cue to spring out and fire off his six-shooter, especially as he had only fifteen dollars left in his pocket. What would these pseudo-gentlemen of the road do to him, if, after his little exhibit of bravery, he failed to wind up the melodrama by settling with the actors? He didn't care to find out, and his mind was bent now in deciding the best way to get back to Flagstaff. He continued mopping his face, and once or twice he groaned. "What is the matter?" asked Mr. Stiversant; "are you ill?" "I fear so," answered Harrison faintly. "I have a dull pain in my head and I feel faint." "Oh, let us go back," said Nell, "it is only five miles, and we can start again to-morrow just as well." "Perhaps it would be as well," said Harrison weakly; "I fear I am going to be ill." In the privacy of a room at the hotel Harrison hastily manufactured an urgent telegram calling him at once to San Francisco to see a sick uncle, and had barely time to explain matters and express his deep regret at being forced to leave the party at such short notice. An hour later he lay back in a luxurious chair in the smoking compartment of the California Limited, and gazed out of the windows at the vast desert plains through which they passed. His eyes had a far-away look in them, and ever and anon he sighed.