The moon came up, falling dimly upon his burnished skin. It would be no longer possible to mistake his race. He was even darker than Pete, the Indian, his eyes were like jet, his lips were thin and dark and cruel. But he rode well. He seemed to hang almost limp in the saddle, utterly without effort, and the long miles sped beneath him. But the night was almost done when he came to Landy Fargo’s house on the lower waters of Silver Creek. Fargo himself was dozing in a great chair in his stuffy living room, waiting for his envoy to return. There were several noticeable features about this room. The principal one was its dirt. The floors were stained, the carpets soiled, the corners cluttered with rubbish of all kinds; the window glass was so spotted that it did not let the moonlight in, and the soft light lingered—like an unwelcome ghost—against the windowpane. The effect that wise interior decorators try to obtain in furnishing—that in which the pieces, not holding the eye in themselves, give an atmosphere, a sense of unity—was quite lacking here. The mantel was clustered with gaudy ornaments, the chairs were tawdry, cheap pictures covered the walls. But yet the room reflected the individuality of the man in the chair. He was just as cheaply gaudy, just as unclean as the room itself. He got up, and it was to be seen that he had a rather formidable physique. He had imposing muscles, stocky legs, and it was wholly possible that before prosperity had come upon him he had been an agile, muscular cattleman. But the gaze left his heavy frame and was held by the unmistakable brutality of his face. There was none of the fine-edged cruelty—that with which a puma pats and plays his prey to death—that was to be seen in the swarthy face of José. He was blunt, dull; his savagery was that of the bulldog,—heavy lips closed over strong teeth, little lurid eyes looking out from under heavy brows. José rolled a cigarette, lighted it, drew its smoke into his vitals, then lolled in one of the chairs. Fargo watched him with hard eyes, not a little admiring. Most of his understrappers did not come into his presence with this same ease and self-possession. He was used to seeing men cower before him. He had learned to look for a certain cringing and servility, and many a time when it was lacking he forced it with his heavy, flailing fists. But José was different. It might not be healthy to strike José. They met eyes to eyes. “Well?” Fargo demanded. He was somewhat anxious about the verdict. This had been no child’s play,—what José had been sent to do. It was really a new departure for the little clique that he headed. There had been deaths before, open riding and fast shooting, but deliberate and premeditated killing had never been necessary. Slumber hadn’t come easily to him to-night. And now he didn’t like to be kept waiting. “Well, what?” José answered. “You mean—what luck?” “That’s it.” Fargo uttered a short syllable of a laugh. “What luck?”