“Quinby,” says Pendagrast,—he was dealin' now,—“I'll take them options off your hands and give you a bonus of fifty thousand dollars; but you must agree to keep still until after I've dealt with these folks—” “No,” says Silas; “I'm askin' two hundred an acre for the land.” Pendagrast groaned. “Two hundred! Why, that's what it's worth!” he says in a shocked tone. “Of course,” says Silas. “That's what I want to get for these folks—all their land's worth.” “But that ain't business,” urges Pendagrast, almost moved to tears. “Silas, my friend—” he began, conjurin' back that old winnin' smile. But Silas shook his head. “Two hundred, or I wire them New York parties I've been dickerin' with.” And Pendagrast seen that he was like adamant—like adamant covered up with cotton-batting. “No,” cries Pendagrast, “rather than have you do that, I'll pay what the land's worth.” “Two hundred,” says Silas, gentle but firm. Mrs. Quinby, looking through the keyhole, says she seen something like a mortal agony wrench Pendagrast; then he groaned horrid, showin' the whites of his eyes, and says weak: “Fetch pen and paper. It's highway robbery, but I'll sign—I got to,” he says. “I've the papers ready for you,” says Silas. Pendagrast signed them, then he drawed himself up. “I shudder for your future, Quinby,” he says. “No, I won't shake hands with you; I don't feel cordial.” And he groped his way out to where his big tourin'-car was drawed up under the maples. And that was how Silas Quinby saved the valley folks something like ten million dollars just by bein' such a simple soul. The lightnin'-rod man? Oh, he was Pendagrast's agent. THE BAD MAN OF LAS VEGAS WHEN the Bad Man of Las Vegas left Baker's ranch, taking himself reluctantly from the midst of the unrighteous revel that was being held there, day was just breaking. It was about mid-morning and the sun was high in the heavens when his horse stepped gingerly over the cactus bushes and into the well worn trail that led down to Las Vegas. The Bad Man drew rein. He was having a moment with his conscience; one of the consequences of the early ride; or it may have been the unavoidable aftermath of Baker's whisky, which had been not only abundant but vile. He recalled how he had come to Las Vegas, a raw lad of twenty. He saw himself as he was then, lank and wondering, with factory bleached skin. He had come West to make his fortune. When that was accomplished he was to return and settle down in the old home where his godly forefathers had dwelt since Pilgrim times, self-respecting and respected.