"Deducting what you have lent me," he repeated. "Twenty dollars at the Half-Way House and fifty at Camp Kettle. That makes seventy." "You will need some more," said I. "No," said he. "I have still almost all the fifty, of course, and I can sell the two pintos for what I paid for them. Don’t worry me. I have never been obliged to a soul in my life for anything." But looking up and catching my eye looking sadly on him he smiled and: "Humour me," he said, "humour me in this." When the letter was written he handed it to me, open, and said: "Well, that is all, I think, until we hear the east-bound whistle." My heart was in my mouth. "That other matter?" I said. "What other?" said he. "You wanted me to do something for you in the old country." "True," said he, and sat pondering; and then coming to a conclusion he wrote a name and address on another sheet, and putting it in an envelope, which he sealed, he said: "When you reach home you can open that, and—it should be easy enough to find out who lives there. If they are gone, you can trace them without anyone knowing what you are doing. They must never know about me, however. You will promise?" "I promise," said I. "You can write to—let me see—say, where shall I go now?—say Santa Fe—to be called for." "Had you not better come home?" I asked half-fearfully, and he looked at me as twice I had seen him look,—once, when he silenced the "Dago" livery-stable keeper; once, when he silenced the sheriff. I knew Apache Kid liked me; but at that glance I knew he had never let me quite close to himself. There was a barrier between him and all men. But the look passed, and said he, slowly and definitely: "I can never go home." We went out into the air and sat silent till the east-bound whistled and whistled and screamed nearer and nearer. It was while we sat there that I remembered that he had advertised for Jackson’s relatives, and asked what he would do if they were heard of. He had evidently forgotten about that, for he seemed put out, and then remarked that he would send them his share of the turquoises, still to be disposed of. "But you——" I began, and he held up his hand. "I don’t want the stuff, anyhow," said he. "Now—don’t worry me. Don’t ask me questions. What I like about you is that you take me for granted. Don’t spoil the impression of yourself you have given me by wanting to know how I will get on, and thinking me foolish for what I intend to do." He looked round on me. "Yes," said he, "I like you. Do you know that the fact that you had never asked me what George Brooks and I were enemies for made me your most humble servant? Would you like to hear that story?" I nodded. "Well, well," he said, and laughed. "That makes me like you all the more. You are really interested, and yet are polite enough not to ask questions. Yes—that’s the sort of man I like."