"Sit down there opposite me, and hold out your hands," directed P. Walton, with an effort. "We haven't got any time to waste." The Butcher, heavy with wonderment, obeyed mechanically--and P. Walton drew a rat-tail file from his pocket. "I saw you in the express car this afternoon, and I went to the roundhouse for this when I left the office," P. Walton said, as he set to work on the steel links. "But I was feeling kind of down and out, and was going to leave you till to-morrow night--only I heard they were going to lynch you at midnight." "Lynch me!" growled the Butcher. "What fer? They don't lynch a fellow 'cause he's nipped in a hold-up--we didn't kill no one." "Some of the cowboys are looking for amusement," said P. Walton monotonously. "They've distributed red-eye among the Polacks, for the purpose, I imagine, of putting the blame--on the Polacks." "I get you!" snarled the Butcher, with an oath. "It's de Bar K Ranch--we took their payroll away from 'em two weeks ago. Lynchin', eh? Well, some of 'em 'll dance on air fer this themselves, blast 'em! Dook, yer white--an' you always was. I thought me luck was out fer keeps to-day when Spud--you saw Spud, didn't you?" "Yes," said P. Walton, filing steadily. "Spud always had a soft spot in his heart," said the Butcher. "Instead of drilling that devil, Nulty, when he had the chance, Nulty filled Spud full of holes, an' we fluked up--yer gettin' a bit of my wrist, Dook, with that damned file. Well, as I said, I thought me luck was out fer keeps--an' _you_ show up. Gee! Who'd have thought of seein' de Angel Dook, de prize penman, de gem of forgers! How'd you make yer getaway--you was in fer twenty spaces, wasn't you?" "I think they wanted to save the expense of burying me," said P. Walton. "The other wrist, Butch. I got a pardon." "What's de matter with you, Dook?" inquired the Butcher solicitously. "Lungs," said P. Walton tersely. "Bad." "Hell!" said the Butcher earnestly. There was silence for a moment, save only for the rasping of the file, and then the Butcher spoke again. "What's yer lay out here, Dook?" he asked. "Working for the railroad in the super's office--and keeping my mouth shut," said P. Walton. "There's nothin' in that," said the Butcher profoundly. "Nothin' to it!" "Not much," agreed P. Walton. "Forty a month, and--oh, well, forty a month." "I'll fix that fer you, Dook," said the Butcher cheerily. "You join de gang. There's de old crowd from Joliet up here in de mountains. We got a swell layout. There's Larry, an' Big Tom, an' Dago Pete--Spud's cashed in--an' they'll stand on their heads an' yell Salvation Army songs when they hear that de slickest of 'em all--that's you, Dook--is buyin' a stack an' settin' in." "No," said P. Walton. "No, Butch, I guess not--it's me for the forty per." "Eh!" ejaculated the Butcher heavily. "You don't mean to say you've turned parson, Dook? You wouldn't be lettin' me loose if you had."