Yet a few hours later that sun-blistered morning, the bookkeeper Case "blew in for a bottle," as he expressed it; remarked with engaging frankness that he believed he had still a day or so in which to taper, and would be home and on deck if the Apaches didn't get him meantime; and, being delicately invited to state where he had spent the night, replied as frankly as before, "Down at Jose Sanchez's," meaning thereby the down-stream resort two miles distant, where prospectors, packers and occasionally men from the post, in peace times, at least, went for unlimited mescal and monte. Since the death of Comes Flying, the disappearance of 'Patchie Sanchez (the runner, half-brother to Sanchez, the gambler), and the general outbreak among the Indians, it had been shunned as utterly unsafe, and reported abandoned. When cautioned by Watts against returning thither, Mr. Case replied that now that the Indians spurned it, for not even 'Tonio would set foot anywhere about the ranch, the ghost of the brother was seen there every night. He had seen it and it was an honest ghost, and a convivial spirit, which was why last night's bottle had lasted no longer. Moreover, Case said that when he was drinking he was only at home in half-bred society and couldn't live up to the high tone of the post. When told of Mr. Willett's further mishap, Case sobered for a moment in manner, and said Mr. Willett was unwise taking so many chances, and Mr. Willett would be in big luck if he got away from Almy without further puncture. Somebody else had been shot at last night. He and the ghost had heard it. This at the moment was regarded as semi-maudlin talk, but at morning office hour Watts was sent for, was told what the guard had seen, and asked what Case had really said, rumor being, as a rule, inaccurate. Then Archer rebuked Watts for letting Case go in his intoxicated condition, and it was decided to send a little party in search, in hopes of fetching him in and finding out more about the alleged shooting. The party found Case without any trouble. He sat singing to himself and swinging his legs from the table in the abandoned rookery, the half-emptied bottle on one side and a "monkey" of spring water on the other, scornful alike of danger or demands, but indomitably courteous. The party took a drink with him as promptly invited, but found him implacably bent on holding the position. Not until argument and whiskey both were exhausted would he listen to reason and the suggestion to return to the post. That being the only means to more whiskey, he started affably enough, but before going half a mile declared he had left or lent his revolver. "There's only one revolver at Camp Almy just like it," said he, with drunken dignity, and then, with sudden gravity, "an' that one--_isn't_ at Camp Almy."