Donovan heaved himself round.  “Why, hello, Jim!  I didn’t hear you come in.”

Waring’s cool gray eyes held Donovan with a mildly contemptuous gaze.  Still the gunman did not speak.

“Did you land ’em?” queried Donovan.

Waring shook his head.

“Hell!” exclaimed Donovan.  “Then, what’s the answer?”

“Bill, you can’t bluff worth a damn!”

Quigley laughed.  The assistant mopped his face with an immaculate handkerchief.  The room was hot.

“Bill,” and Waring’s voice was softly insulting, “you can’t bluff worth a damn.”

Donovan’s red face grew redder.  “What are you driving at, anyway?”

Quigley stirred and rose.  The assistant got to his feet.

“Just a minute,” said Waring, gesturing to them to sit down.  “Donovan’s got something on his mind.  I knew it the minute I came in.  I want you fellows to hear it.”

Donovan flung his half-smoked cigar to the floor and lighted a fresh one.  Waring’s attitude irritated him.  Officially, Donovan was Waring’s superior.  Man to man, the Sonora gunman was Donovan’s master, and the Irishman knew and resented it.

He tried a new tack.  “Glad to see you back, Jim.”  And he rose and stuck out a sweating hand.

Waring swung the canteen from his shoulder and carefully hung the strap over Donovan’s wrist.  “There’s your money, Bill.  Count it—­and give me a receipt.”

Donovan, with the dusty canteen dangling from his arm, looked exceedingly foolish.

Waring turned to Quigley.  “Bill’s got a stroke,” he said, smiling.  “Quigley, give me a receipt for a thousand dollars.”

“Sure!” said Quigley, relieved.  The money had been stolen from him.

Waring pulled up a chair and leaned his elbows on the table.  Quigley unscrewed the cap of the canteen.  A stream of sand shot across a map.  The assistant started to his feet.  Quigley shook the canteen and poured out a softly clinking pile of gold-pieces.  One by one he sorted them from the sand and counted them.

“One thousand even.  Where’d you overtake Vaca and his outfit?”

“Did I?” queried Waring.

“Well, you got the mazuma,” said Quigley.  “And that’s good enough for me.”

Donovan stepped to the table.  “Williams, I won’t need you any more to-day.”

The assistant rose and left the office.  Donovan pulled up a chair.  “Never mind about that receipt, Quigley.  You can witness that Waring returned the money.  Jim, here, is not so dam’ particular.”

“No, or I wouldn’t be on your pay-roll,” said Waring.

Donovan laughed.  “Let’s get down to bed-rock, Jim.  I’m paying you your own price for this work.  The Eastern office thinks I pay too high.  I got a letter yesterday telling me to cut down expenses.  This last holdup will make them sore.  Here’s the proposition.  I’ll keep you on the pay-roll and charge this thousand up to profit and loss.  Nobody knows you recovered this money except Williams, and he’ll keep still.  Quigley and you and I will split it—­three hundred apiece.”