any one to know you.  If you can’t push through to-night, you can lie over at the posada on the summit.  Them greasers that keep it won’t know you, And if they did they won’t go back on you.  And if they did go back on you, nobody would believe them.  It’s mighty curious,” he added, with gloomy philosophy, “but I reckon it’s the reason why Providence allows this kind of cattle to live among white men and others made in his image.  Take a piece of pie, won’t you?” he continued, abandoning this abstract reflection and producing half a flat pumpkin pie from the bar.  Spencer Tucker grasped the pie with one hand and his friend’s fingers with the other, and for a few moments was silent from the hurried deglutition of viand and sentiment. “You’re a white man, Patterson, any way,” he resumed.  “I’ll take your horse, and put it down in our account at your own figure.  As soon as this cursed thing is blown over, I’ll be back here and see you through, you bet!  I don’t desert my friends, however rough things go with me.”

“I see you don’t,” returned Patterson, with an unconscious and serious simplicity that had the effect of the most exquisite irony.  “I was only just saying to the sheriff that if there was anything I could have done for you, you wouldn’t have cut away without letting me know.”  Tucker glanced uneasily at Patterson, who continued, “Ye ain’t wanting anything else?” Then observing that his former friend and patron was roughly but newly clothed, and betrayed no trace of his last escapade, he added, “I see you’ve got a fresh harness.”

“That d—­d Chinaman bought me these at the landing.  They’re not much in style or fit,” he continued, trying to get a moonlight view of himself in the mirror behind the bar, “but that don’t matter here.”  He filled another glass of spirits, jauntily settled himself back in his chair, and added, “I don’t suppose there are any girls around, anyway.”

“’Cept your wife; she was down here this afternoon,” said Patterson meditatively.

Mr. Tucker paused with the pie in his hand.  “Ah, yes!” He essayed a reckless laugh, but that evident simulation failed before Patterson’s melancholy.  With an assumption of falling in with his friend’s manner, rather than from any personal anxiety, he continued, “Well?”

“That man Poindexter was down here with her.  Put her in the hacienda to hold possession afore the news came out.”

“Impossible!” said Tucker, rising hastily.  “It don’t belong—­that is”—­he hesitated.

“Yer thinking the creditors’ll get it, mebbe,” returned Patterson, gazing at the floor.  “Not as long as she’s in it; no sir!  Whether it’s really hers, or she’s only keeping house for Poindexter, she’s a fixture, you bet.  They are a team when they pull together, they are!”