“Good luck to you,” cried the Cochino Colorow, waving a fraternal hand. “Give my regyards to Wright an’ Kell an’ Short.” “I hope you won’t have trouble with that outfit from Ogallala,” returned Mr. Masterson. The Cochino Colorow snapped his fingers. “Since my mind’s took to runnin’ on my mother-in-law,” he said, “I’ve done quit worryin’ about sech jim-crow propositions.” And thus they parted. It was a week later when Mr. Masterson and the rescued one made Dodge. When he had seen the suffering Cimarron safely in bed at the Wright House, Mr. Masterson began looking after his own welfare at the Long Branch. “You cert’nly had a strenuous time, Bat,” observed Mr. Short, sympathetically. “Strenuous!” repeated Mr. Masterson. “I should say as much! Cimarron was as ugly as a sore-head dog, and wanted everything he could think of from a sandwich to a six-shooter. I was never so worn to a frazzle. It was certainly,” concluded Mr. Masterson, replenishing his glass, “the most arduous rescue in which I ever took a hand; and we’d have never pulled it off if it hadn’t been for the Cochino Colorow. Here’s hoping he can square himself with that relative he robbed. She’s as sour as pig-nuts, and I don’t feel altogether easy about the Cochino Colorow. However, if the lady puts up too rough a deal, I told him he’d find a ready-made asylum here.” CHAPTER XIV THE WORRIES OF MR. HOLIDAY It was growing dark in California Gulch. Red Jack, the barkeeper of the Four Flush saloon, began to light up one by one the kerosene lamps, so that the Four Flush might be made resplendent against the advent of its evening customers. Just then the customers were at flap-jacks and bacon, for it was supper time in California Gulch. Having rendered the Four Flush a blaze of expectant glory, Red Jack took a rag and mopped the bar, already painfully clean. Then he shifted the two six-shooters, which were part of the concealed furniture of the bar, so that vagrant drops from careless glasses might not bespatter them. Commonly, Red Jack consoled himself by whistling the “Mocking Bird,” at this hour, when the stones of the Four Flush were grinding low. On this particular evening he was mute. Also his glance, when now and then he cast it upon Mr. Masterson and Mr. Holiday, who were engaged in whispered converse over a monte table just across the room, showed full of decorous interest. Not that Red Jack objected to Mr. Masterson and Mr. Holiday holding a conference on the premises. It was plain by the respectful softness of his eye that he dwelt in sympathy therewith, and was only restrained from making a third for the pow-wow by an experience which taught him never to volunteer advice or put a question. Patronage and curiosity are crimes in the West, and ones sophisticated will not risk their commissions.