"No, sir. Not exactly, that is. I was jest waitin' fur Mac. He allowed he'd be back about this time. Gosh! Here he is, crossin' the divide, an' totin' along some tony galoot I hain't seen afore." "Tell MacGonigal, and every other person in the place, that I am not to be disturbed." Power withdrew from the French window, and Jake nodded to the group of horses. "You're feelin' pretty bad, I guess," he said to himself. "But thar ain't a gun in the outfit outside my locked grip, an' you cahn't find enough rope ter hang a cat, an' the only pisen in the ranch is on a sideboard, an' a skinful of that would do you good, an' this yer son of a gun can stand a lot o' black looks from you, Derry." He heard Power sink into a chair on the inner side of the room, and sheer curiosity led him to steal along the veranda to the porch, where MacGonigal and a stranger were alighting from a two-wheeled buggy. "Derry's jest tole me ter quit," he said in a stage whisper, jerking his left hand, as though it still possessed a thumb, in the direction of the library. The newcomer, a tall, well-built man of middle age, smiled involuntarily at the queer gesture. As it happened, he had never before seen a veritable cowboy outside the bounds of one or other of the American circus shows which visit Europe occasionally, and Jake had donned his costliest rig for the funeral. "Shall I find Mr. Power in that room with the open window?" he inquired. "Yes, sir," said Jake. "I think he will be glad to see me," said the unknown, and, without further comment, he ran up the steps and entered the veranda. The two men watched him in silence. They saw him halt in front of the window, and heard him say, "Power, may I come in?" They heard the scraping of a chair on the parquet floor as it was thrust aside; then the stranger vanished. "Who's the dook?" demanded Jake, vastly surprised by the turn of events. "Friend o' Derry's," said MacGonigal, _sotto voce_. "He wired me from Newport, an' his messages struck me as comin' from a white man; so I gev' him the fax, an' the nex' thing I hear is that he's on the rail, but I'm to keep mum, as he thought it 'ud help Derry some if he kem on him suddint. An' here he is." During a full minute neither man spoke. At last, Jake, who appeared to have something on his mind, brought it out. "Thar was a piece 'bout Derry and Mrs. Marten in the _Rocky Mountain News_ a week sence," he began. "Thar was," agreed MacGonigal, who looked vastly uncomfortable in a suit of heavy black cloth. "Not anything ter make a song of," went on Jake. "An or'nary kind o' yarn, 'bout a point-ter-point steeplechase, whatever that sort o' flam may be, an' Bison won, in course." "Jest so," said the other. "Guess you spotted it, too?" "Guess I did." "Marten's in Baku. Whar's Baku?" "I don't know, but it's a damn long way from Newport, anyhow, or Derry an' Nancy wouldn't be cavortin' round together on plugs from one p'int to any other p'int."