However, Red Jack might, without violating the canons of his tribe and region, relieve himself with one act of amiable politeness. While he could not have a share in the talk between Mr. Masterson and Mr. Holiday, wanting an invitation to join them therein, he was free to provide the inspiration. Wherefore Red Jack brought a bottle and two glasses, and set them between Mr. Masterson and Mr. Holiday. Having thus made himself one with them in spirit, Red Jack left the pair to themselves, and made the rounds of the lamps to turn down ones which in a primary exuberance had begun to smoke. “It’s tough lines, Bat,” said Mr. Holiday, as he poured himself a drink. “I’ve never done anything worse than down a man, always a warrior at that, and now to have to rustle a party, even when it isn’t on the level, comes plenty hard.” “But it’s the one thing to do, Doc,” returned Mr. Masterson. Mr. Holiday had been a dentist in his native Georgia, and his intimates called him Doc. “It’s the only trail,” reiterated Mr. Masterson. “The message says that they start to-day from Tucson. They’ll be in Denver day after to-morrow. The only way to beat them is to have you under arrest. Our Governor won’t give up a man to Arizona who’s wanted here at home. Those reward-hungry sports from Tucson will get turned down, and meanwhile you will be on bail. That Arizona outfit can never take you away while a charge is pending against you in Colorado. You’ll be safe for life.” “That wouldn’t be for long,” returned Mr. Holiday, “at the rate my lungs are losing.” Mr. Holiday was in the grasp of consumption, as one might tell by the sunken chest and hollow eye, even without the cough which was never long in coming. It was this malady of the lungs which had brought him West in the beginning. “On the whole,” objected Mr. Holiday, following a moment of thought, “why not go back to Arizona and be tried? It’s four to one they couldn’t convict; and I’ve gone against worse odds than that every day since I was born.” “Man!” expostulated Mr. Masterson, “it would never come to trial. You wouldn’t get as far as Albuquerque. Some of the band would board the train and shoot you in the car-seat—kill you, as one might say, on the nest! It isn’t as though you were to have a square deal. They’d get you on the train: get you with your guns off, too, for you’d be under arrest. Doc, you wouldn’t last as long as a pint of whiskey at a barn-raising.” Mr. Masterson spoke with earnestness. His brow was wise and wide, his cool eye the home of counsel. It was these traits of a cautious intelligence that had given him station among his fellows as much as any wizard accuracy which belonged with his six-shooters. “What is your plan, then?” said Mr. Holiday.