There was a pause and then said he, taking a brand from the fire and lighting his cigarette, so that I saw his full, healthy eye shine bright: "If you are going to talk about sides in this expedition—then so be it. But I don’t think our side, as you call it, will bother with any night-herding; indeed, I think we need hardly trouble about saddling up or unpacking or cooking or anything—if you make it a matter of sides." And he blew a feather of smoke. "I think my side will live like gentlemen between now and the arrival at the Lost Cabin Mine." Every eye was fixed anxiously on him. "You see," he explained, "the fact is, you need us and we don’t need you. It’s a case of supply and demand and—seeing you talk of sides," he said, with what must have been, to Farrell, an aggravating insistence, "our side at present is wanted. It’s almost a sort of example of the workings of capital and labour. No!" he ended, with a satisfied grunt, "I don’t think there’s any need for me to tend horses at all, thanks. I ’m quite comfy by the fire." There was a shrewd, calculating look on Farrell’s face as he looked Apache Kid cunningly in the eye a space. I could wager that he was making himself certain from this speech that Apache Kid was the principal in our expedition. I think he really believed that I could say nothing of the Lost Cabin, even had I desired to, and from the way he looked then to Donoghue and looked back again to Apache Kid it struck me forcibly that he was wondering if it were possible that Larry Donoghue was not "in the know" to the full, but merely of the company in a similar way with myself. Then he rolled an eye back again to Apache Kid, and I remembered the sheriff of Baker City then, for Farrell’s words were the very words I had heard the sheriff use: "You ’re a deep man," he said. "And I ’m quite comfy, too," broke in Donoghue. "Thanks," he added. "And as for this young man beside me, I think he wants a rest to-night. A man that’s had a snake wriggling at his nose for half of an afternoon is liable to want a little sleep and forgetting." Everybody cocked an ear, so to speak, on this speech; but no one of those who did not understand asked an explanation. Farrell looked with meaning at Mr. Pinkerton, who sat out of the affair, but neither he nor the half-breed spoke a syllable, Pinkerton pulling on his corn-cob pipe, and the half-breed rubbing the silver buckle of his belt with the palm of his hand, and studying the reflection of fire-light in it. "No, no," suddenly remarked Apache Kid, "you could n’t ask Mr. Pinkerton to do that, nor Charlie either. We can’t be so inhospitable as to ask our guests of this evening to night-tend our horses." "What the hell are you getting on about?" said Farrell, and then, as though thinking better, and considering that a milder tone was more fitting, he said: "I never asked them to."