“Certainly, that's all we want,” Ranson answered, genially. “I only thought you might give me a friendly pointer or two on the outside. And, of course, if it's your opinion I did the deed we certainly don't want your opinion. But that needn't prevent your taking a drink with me, need it? Don't be afraid. I'm not trying to corrupt you. And I'm not trying to poison a witness for the other fellows, either. Help yourself.” Cahill stretched out his left hand. His right remained hidden in the side pocket of his coat. “What's the matter with your right hand?” Ranson asked. “Are you holding a gun on me? Really, Mr. Cahill, you're not taking any chances, are you?” Ranson gazed about the room as though seeking an appreciative audience. “He's such an important witness,” he cried, delightedly, “that first he's afraid I'll poison him and he won't drink with me, and now he covers me with a gun.” Reluctantly, Cahill drew out his hand. “I was putting the bridle on my pony last night,” he said. “He bit me.” Ranson exclaimed sympathetically, “Oh, that's too bad,” he said. “Well, you know you want to be careful. A horse's teeth really are poisonous.” He examined his own hands complacently. “Now, if I had a bandage like that on my right hand they would hang me sure, no matter whether it was a bite, or a burn, or a bullet.” Cahill raised the glass to his lips and sipped the whiskey critically. “Why?” he asked. “Why? Why, didn't you know that the paymaster boasted last night to the surgeons that he hit this fellow in the hand? He says--” Cahill snorted scornfully. “How'd he know that? What makes him think so?” “Well, never mind, let him think so,” Ranson answered, fervently. “Don't discourage him. That's the only evidence I've got on my side. He says he fired to disarm the man, and that he saw him shift his gun to his left hand. It was the shot that the man fired when he held his gun in his left that broke the colonel's arm. Now, everybody knows I can't hit a barn with my left. And as for having any wounds concealed about my person”--Ranson turned his hands like a conjurer to show the front and back--“they can search me. So, if the paymaster will only stick to that story--that he hit the man--it will help me a lot.” Ranson seated himself on the table and swung his leg. “And of course it would be a big help, too, if you could remember who was in your Exchange when I was planning to rob the coach. For someone certainly must have overheard me, someone must have copied my disguise, and that someone is the man we must find. Unless he came from Kiowa.” Cahill shoved his glass from him across the table and, placing his hands on his knees, stared at his host coldly and defiantly. His would-be son-in-law observed the aggressiveness of his attitude, but, in his fuller knowledge of their prospective relations, smiled blandly.