She looked up angrily. Of course he must know that he had been splendid, up there behind the rocks. And now to be unconscious of it! But that was only a pose, she decided. Yet what made him so stupidly commonplace, and so dense? She hated to be robbed of her enthusiasm for an artistic bric-a-brac of emotion; and here he was, like some sordid mechanic who would not talk shop with a girl. "I wager one thing," she fretted, "and it is that when you bring men down to earth you have not even at all--how do you say?--the martial rage in your eyes?" "W'y, uh, not's I know of. It might spoil good shooting." "And your pipe"--her lip curled and smiled at the same time--"the pipe does not, neither?" His mouth twitched at the corners. "N-o," he decided soberly, "not in close range." She gave him up, he had no pose. Still, she was out of patience with him. "Helas! monsieur, all may see you are Ameri-can. But there, you have not to feel sorry. I forgive you, yes, because--it wasn't dull." "Hadn't we better be----" "Now what," she persisted, "kept you so long up there, for example?" Driscoll reddened. He had lingered behind the screen of rock to bandage his furrowed leg. "S'pose you don't ask," he said abruptly, "there's plenty other things to be doing." He turned and invited the little Breton maid to come from the shack. She was white, and trembled a little yet. "I knew, I knew you would not leave us, monsieur," she was trying to tell him. "But if you had--oh, what would madame----" "Now then," the practical American interrupted, "where's Murgie?" Jacqueline pointed with the toe of her slipper. There were prostrate bodies around them, with teeth bared, insolent, silent, horrible. One couldn't be sorry they were dead, but one didn't like to see them. Jacqueline's boot pointed to a man lying on his face. A silk hat was near by in the dust. A rusty black wig was loosened from his head. The girl invoked him solemnly. "Arise, Ancient Black Crow, and live another thousand years." Driscoll lifted the shrunken bundle of a man, held him at arm's length, looked him over, and stood him on his feet. The withered face was more than ever like a death's head, and the eyes were glassy, senseless. But as to hurt or scratch, there was none. The beady orbs started slowly in their sockets, rolling from side to side. The lips opened, and formed words. "Killed? yes, I am killed. But I want--my cotton, my burros, my peons--I want them. I am dead, give them to me." "You're alive, you old maverick." The gaze focused slowly on Driscoll, and slowly wakened to a crafty leer. Believe this Gringo?--not he! With an arm behind his shoulders Driscoll forced him down the trail to his caravan. Most of the animals were lying down, dozing under their packs. Murguia's eyes grew watery when he saw them, but he was still dazed and his delusion was obstinate. The leer shot exultant gleams. "A rich man _can_ enter heaven," he chuckled with unholy glee.