“Nothin' much. The town ain't no worse than any other one-horse camp for wantin' to know everybody's business but its own. They never found out any o' mine, though, you can bank on that; and it always hurt 'em because they never found out any of your poor mother's when she was livin'. An' since your trouble the other night, they're all itchin' to learn the name o' the brave that saved you. Some o' the coroner's jury was for callin' you to testify at the inquest, but considerin' the hard looks o' the deceased an' what you told me--an' what Borax O'Rourke told everybody else before he left town yesterday, I prevailed on Doc Taylor to testify that you weren't in no fit frame o' mind to face the music, so they concluded to bring in a verdict _muy pronto,_ an' let it go at that. They tell me there's been a plague o' hard characters droppin' off here lately, an' anyway, to make a long story short, the boys rendered a verdict on general principles an' there ain't no news for the rest o' the town--particularly the women. The way some o' them women's been dodgin' back and forth between their own homes and the post-office, you'd think it was the finish of a jack-rabbit drive. They're just plumb _loco,_ Miss Donna, to find out the name o' this gallant stranger that saved you. They want to know what he looks like, the color o' his hair an' how he parts it, how he ties his necktie, an' if he votes the Republican ticket straight and believes in damnation for infants.” “I see,” said Donna, “and you want to let them suffer, do you?” “I wouldn't wag my tongue to save 'em” he retorted bitterly. “Now here's the programme. You've got young McGraw bottled up there at the Hat Ranch, and I want you to keep him there until he's able to walk away without any assistance, an' all that time don't you let nobody see him. I've got Doc Taylor fixed already, which was easy, Doc bein' a bachelor--an' now if you stand in we'll have 'em goin' south. On account o' bein' postmistress an' in a position to get all the news, the town's lookin' to Miss Pickett to produce, an' if she can't produce, I'm hopin' she'll go into convulsions.” “Mr. Hennage,” said Donna, “this is most unworthy of you. I didn't think you would harbor a grudge.” “Why, you know my reputation, Miss Donna.” “Yes, you're the worst man in San Pasqual. But I'm afraid I can't agree to enter into this conspiracy.” “Why not?” “It's unlawful.” “Miss Donna, I'm serious--” “It's cruel and unusual punishment--” “I'd light a fire under 'em” said Harley P. ferociously. “Better stand in, Miss Donna--to oblige me.” “All right, it's a go, if you put it that way.”