“Yes; I am the Acrobat of the Breakfast Table,” said Pringle modestly.  “Thanks for the young fellow.  That listens good.”

“Look out I don’t have you performing on a tight rope yet!” growled the sheriff hoarsely.  “There’ll be more to this.  You haven’t got out of the country yet.”

“That will be all from you, Sheriff.  You, too, Creagan—­and Espalin.  Not a word or I’ll shoot.  And I don’t care how soon you begin to talk.  That goes!”

Espalin shriveled up; the sheriff and Creagan sat sullen and silent.

Foy got to his feet rather unsteadily.

“Chris, you might slip around and gather up their guns,” said Pringle.  “Pick out one for yourself.  I left yours where I threw it when I picked it out of your belt.  I meant to knock you out, Chris—­there wasn’t any other way; but I didn’t mean to plumb kill you.  You hit your head on a rock when you fell.  It wouldn’t have done any good to have got the drop on you.  You had made up your mind not to surrender.  You would have shot anyhow; and, of course, I couldn’t shoot.  I’d just have got myself killed for nothing.  No good to play I’d taken you prisoner.  This crowd knew you wouldn’t be taken—­except by treachery.  So I played traitor.  As it was, when I knocked you out you didn’t look much like no put-up job.  You was bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“Hold on, there, before you try to take my gun!” warned old Nueces River as Foy came to him for his gun, collecting.  “You got the big drop on me, Pringle, and I wouldn’t raise a hand to keep Chris from getting off anyhow—­not now.  But I used to be a ranger—­and the rangers were sworn never to give up their guns.”

“How about it, Pringle?” asked Foy, who had already relieved the sheriff and his satellites of their guns.  “He’ll do exactly as he says—­both ways.”

“I wasn’t done talking yet,” said Nueces irritably.  “But I’ll let Chris take my gun, on one condition.”

“What’s that?” inquired Pringle.

“Why, if you ain’t busy next Saturday I’d like to have you call around—­about one o’clock, say—­and kick me good and hard.”

“Let him keep his gun.  He called me a young fellow.  And I don’t want Breslin’s, anyway.  He’s all right.  Not to play any favorites, let Anastacio keep his.  There are times,” said Pringle, “when I have great hopes of Anastacio.  I’m thinking some of taking him in hand to see if I can’t make a man of him.”

“Ananias the Amateur,” said Anastacio, “I thank you for those kind words.  And I’d like to see you Saturday about two—­when you get through with Nueces.  I’m next on the waiting list.  This will be a lesson to me never to let my opinion of a man be changed by anything he may do.”

“If you fellows feel that way,” said Foy, “how about me?  How do you suppose I feel?  This man has risked his life fifty times for me—­and what did I think of him?”

“If you ask me, Christopher,” said Anastacio, “I think you were quite excusable.  It was all very well to dissemble his love—­but I should feel doubtful of any man that handed me such a wallop as that until the matter had been fully explained.”