“Looky here. Miss Donnie,” he said, “Bob McGraw's free, white an' twenty-one an' he can play his own hand. I ain't one of the presumin' kind an' I hate to tell any man his own business, but if twenty years o' gamblin' an' meetin' all kinds an' conditions o' men ain't made me as fly as a road-runner, then that there artesian well is spoutin' mint juleps. Say, Miss Donnie, if ever I see a cold-blooded, fishy, snaky, ornery man, it's this T. Morgan Carey--an' at that he's a dead ringer for a church deacon. That Carey man would steal a hot stove without burnin' himself. Now, this young Bob is an impulsive cuss, an' if he has any dealin's of a money nature with this sweet-scented porch-climber that's on his trail, you take a tip from Harley P. Hennage, Miss Donnie, an' act as lookout on Bob's game. Miss Donnie, I can tell a crook in the dark. Let a crook try to buck my game an' I have him spotted in a minute. I just _feel_ 'em.” “Thank you, Mr. Hennage. I have great faith in your judgment.” “Well, generally speakin', I call the turn, if I do say so myself.” He sat there, his bow-legs spread apart, his hands folded across his ample abdomen, staring thoughtfully at the little white cross down at the end of the garden. “You're a heap like your mother” he said presently, and sighed. When Bob returned with the order for the registered letter, Mr. Hennage tucked it carefully in his side coat pocket; then from his rear hip pocket he produced Bob McGraw's automatic gun. “I took charge o' this the night o' the mix-up” he explained as he returned it. He looked hard at Bob. “When you're ready to toddle about” he added, with a lightning wink and a slight movement of his fat thumb and forefinger, as if counting a stack of imaginary bills, “send Sam Singer up to let me know. _Comprende, amigo?”_ Bob smiled at this sinful philanthropist. “Not necessary, old man--if you'll drop in at the Kern County Bank and Trust Company in Bakersfield to-morrow and get me a check-book. I have owed you fifty for three years and I'd like to square up.” “Sure you ain't bluffin' on no pair?” “Thank you, Harley. I have a small stake.” “Well, holler when you're hit.” He waved his hand and departed with a “_Buenas noches,_ children.” Scarcely had the gate slammed behind him when Bob turned to Donna with beaming face. “They're after my water-right, sweetheart--they're after it already!” His exultant laugh rang through the patio, “I knew I was treading on somebody's toes when I filed on that water, Donna. By George, I must investigate T. Morgan Carey and ascertain the kind of man I have to fight.” “He came here looking for you a week after you arrived. Doesn't that seem strange? How did he discover you had a water-right, investigate it, ascertain its value and then, come seeking you, all in the course of one week?”