“We are in the wilds,” said Ajax, “and it may surprise you to learn that not so very long ago the Spanish-Californians who owned most of the land kept thousands of pounds in gold slugs.  In the attic over this old ‘adobe,’ Don Juan Soberanes, from whom we bought this ranch, kept his cash in gold dust and slugs in a clothes-basket.  His nephew used to take a tile off the roof, drop a big lump of tallow attached to a cord into the basket, and scoop up what he could.  The man who bought our steers yesterday has no dealings with banks.  He paid us in Uncle Sam’s notes.”

“Did he?”

Shortly afterwards we went to bed.  As our guest turned into the spare room, he said whimsically—­

“Have I entertained you?  You have entertained me.”

Ajax held out his hand.  Johnson hesitated a moment—­I recalled his hesitation afterwards—­and then extended his hand, a singularly slender, well-formed member.

“You have the hand of an artist,” said the ever-curious Ajax.

“The most beautiful hand I ever saw,” replied Johnson imperturbably, “belonged to a—­thief.  Good-night.”

Ajax frowned, turning down the corners of his lips in exasperation.

“I am eaten up with curiosity,” he growled.

* * * * *

Next morning we routed out an old kit-bag, into which we packed a few necessaries.  When we insisted upon Johnson accepting this, he shrugged his shoulders and turned the palms of his hands upwards, as if to show their emptiness.

“Why do you do this?” he asked, with a certain indescribable peremptoriness.

Ajax answered simply—­

“A man must have clean linen.  In the town you are going to, a boiled shirt is a credential.  I should like to give you a letter to the cashier of the bank.  He is a Britisher, and a good fellow.  You are not strong enough for such work as we might offer you, but he will find you a billet.”

“You positively overwhelm me,” said Johnson.  “You must be lineally descended from the Good Samaritan.”

Ajax wrote the letter.  A neighbour was driving in to town, as we knew, and I had arranged early that morning for our guest’s transportation.

“And what am I to do in return for these favours?” Johnson demanded.

“Let us hear from you,” said my brother.

“You shall,” he replied.

Within half an hour Johnson had vanished in a buckboard and a cloud of fine white dust.

Upon the following afternoon I made an alarming discovery.  Our burglar-proof safe had been opened, and the roll of notes was missing.  I sought Ajax and told him.  He allowed one word only to escape his lips—­

“Johnson!”

“What tenderfeet we are!” I groaned.

“Lineal descendants of the Good Samaritan.  Well, he has had a long start, but we must catch him.”

“If it should not be—­Johnson?”

“Conan would have nailed anybody else.”