“You're a man of business, Bob,” he said cheerfully. “I like you, Bob. That's so. That will--I've got it in my pocket. Now, Bob, I take it you've got some cards, else you're putting up a creditable bluff. I play this here Will, Codicil attached. You play,--window already mended; time expired at twelve o'clock to-night. Good cards, Bob--first-rate. I play here”--opening the satchel--“two panes of glass--allowin' for accidents--putty, et cetera, proposing to bust that window again. Good cards, Bob. How are you coming on?” The deacon's sallow cheeks flushed and his eyes glittered. Something came into his face which suggested the family likeness. He drew a paper from his inner coat pocket, bent forward stiffly and laid it on the grass. “Sheriff's warrant,” he said, “for--hem--covering possible trespassing on my premises; good for twenty-four hours' detention--hem.” “Good,” said his brother briskly. “I admire you, Bob. I'll be blessed if I don't. I play again.” He drew a revolver and placed it on top of the glass. “Six-shooter. Good for two hours' stand-off.” “Hem,” said the deacon. “Warrant will be enlarged to cover the carrying of concealed weapons. Being myself the sheriff of this town, it is--hem--permissible for me.” He placed a revolver on top of the warrant. “Bob,” said his brother, in huge delight, “I'm proud of you. But--I judge you ain't on to the practical drop. _Stand back there!_” The deacon looked into the muzzle of the steady revolver covering him, and retreated a step, breathing hard. Tom Rand sprang to his feet, and the two faced each other, the deacon looking as dangerous a man as the Westerner. Suddenly, the wheezy hand-organ beyond the spring began, seemingly trying to play two tunes at once, with Pietro turning the crank as desperately as if the muzzle of the revolver were pointed at him. “Hi, you monk! Dance!” cried Pietro; and the leathery ape footed it solemnly. The perspiration poured down Pietro's face. Over the faces of the two stern men fronting each other a smile came and broadened slowly, first over the younger's, then over the deacon's. The deacon's smile died out first. He sat down on a rock, hid his face and groaned. “I'm an evil-minded man,” he said; “I'm beaten.” The other cocked his head on one side and listened. “Know what that tune is, Bob? I don't.” He sat down in the old place again, took up the panes of glass and the copy of the will, hesitated, and put them down. “I don't reckon you're beaten, Bob. You ain't got to the end of your hand yet. Got any children, Bob? Yes; said you had.” “Five.” “Call it a draw, Bob; I'll go you halves, counting in the monument.” But the deacon only muttered to himself: “I'm an evil-minded man.” Tom Rand meditatively wrapped the two documents around the revolvers. “Here, Dago, you drop 'em in the spring!” which Pietro did, perspiring freely. “Shake all that. Come along.”