At the beginning Fat Joe had been all eager attention. His face became heavy with amazement long before Garry's hard voice was still. "But--but that ain't the kind of a yarn I'm figurin' on," he argued, his high voice faint but dogged. "This ain't going to be any of that tabasco stuff. Nope, I like it better the way I've got it planned. It--it leaves a better taste in your mouth, too." Again Garry laughed, to himself it seemed, this time. "Have your own way," he muttered. "But if you're going to stick to it you'd better label it a romance! Because there's only one kind of a woman, Joe, in reality. Just the kind who's killed what used to be a demand for decent men." And then, outside in the dark, Stephen O'Mara forgot how sick the other man had been. He was across the threshold in a single stride, and Fat Joe came lightly to his feet as he saw his chief's set face that night. It wiped, the smile from Garry's lips, too. Squarely in front of the latter Steve halted and spoke with monotonous lack of haste. "You're going to tell me that you didn't mean that, Garry," he said quietly. "For I'm going to marry one of those women myself." Garret Devereau's face had been white. It went whiter now. He too came squarely to his feet, his body stiff but very frail in the oversize garments from Steve's wardrobe which he was wearing. He stood and stared emptily into his friend's eyes until something close akin to dreary defiance rose and marked his numbed comprehension. "What I said," he answered as quietly, "I'd alter for no man. My opinions are my own." He turned and passed outside. For longer than he realized Steve stood gazing down into the burnt-out fireplace, until another thought, swifter even than the impulse that had lifted him across the threshold and thrust him into speech which, already, he would have given much to recall, whirled him around again. There was a light in the near end of the storehouse building just above his own cabin, and as he hurried toward it he knew Fat Joe must have fitted it up for the third man's quarters. He knocked at the door, and when there came no response, unbidden he lifted the latch and entered. Garry was sitting on the edge of his blanketed bunk--sitting with shoulders slumped forward and head bowed low. He did not look up, for he had not heard Steve's entrance. He was pondering over the cylinder of a heavy, blued revolver, spinning beneath his transparent fingers. But Steve's first inarticulate effort at speech brought his head around. Garry smiled up at him--a smile reminiscent of his rare smile of years before. "I didn't mean anything, Steve," he said in a hushed voice. "I'm damned sorry I spoke as I did. You see--you see, I just didn't know it would hit you, that's all." Again Steve swallowed. Dumbly he pointed at the gun. "What are you doing with that?" he demanded hoarsely.