“But, of course, it is distinctly understood,” went on Oldham, as though he had not heard, “that this is your own affair.  You have nothing to expect from me if you get into trouble.  And if you mention my name, you’ll merely get jugged for attempted blackmail.”

Saleratus Bill’s eyes flared.

“Cut it,” said he, with a rasp in his voice.

“Nevertheless, that is the case,” repeated Oldham, unmoved.

The flame slowly died from Saleratus Bill’s eyes.

“I’ll want a little raise for that kind of a job,” said he.

“Naturally,” agreed Oldham.

They entered into discussion of ways and means.

In the meantime Bob had encountered an old friend.

XXV

Bob always stayed at the Monterosa Hotel when in town; a circumstance that had sent Oldham to the Buena Vista.  Although it wanted but a few hours until train time, he drifted around to his customary stopping place, resolved to enjoy a quiet smoke by the great plate-glass windows before which the ever-varying theatre crowds stream by from Main Street cars.  He had been thus settled for some time, when he heard his name pronounced by the man occupying the next chair.

“Bob Orde!” he cried; “but this is luck!”

Bob looked around to see an elderly, gray-haired, slender man, of keen, intelligent face, pure white hair and moustache, in whom he recognized Mr. Frank Taylor, a lifelong friend of his father’s and one of the best lawyers his native state had produced.  He sprang to his feet to grasp the older man’s hand.  The unexpected meeting was especially grateful, for Bob had been long enough without direct reminders of his old home to be hungry for them.  Ever since he could remember, the erect, military form of Frank Taylor had been one of the landmarks of memory, like the sword that had belonged to Georgie Cathcart’s father, or like the kindly, homely, gray figure of Mr. Kincaid in his rickety, two-wheeled cart—­the man who had given Bob his first firearm.

After first greetings and inquiries, the two men sank back to finish their smoke together.

“It’s good to see you again,” observed Bob, “but I’m sorry your business brings you out here at this time of year.  This is our dry season, you know.  Everything is brown.  I like it myself, as do most Californians, but an Easterner has to get used to it.  After the rains, though, the country is wonderful.”

“This isn’t my first trip,” said Taylor.  “I was out here for some months away back in—­I think it was ’79.  I remember we went in to Santa Barbara on a steamer that fired a gun by way of greeting!  Strangely enough, the same business brings me here now.”

“You are out here on father’s account?” hazarded Bob, to whom the year 1879 now began to have its significance.

“Exactly.  Didn’t you get your father’s letter telling of my coming?”