“You’re spoofing me, old dear.  Wake up; it’s morning.”

“Don’t fool yourself, son.  There was a steady organized effort to get you in bad.  And it took money to get all these people after your goat.  Some one round here was managin’ the game, for pay.  But’t wasn’t no Arizona head that did the plannin’.  Any Rocky Mountain roughneck mean enough for that would ‘a’ just killed you once and been done with it.  No, sir; this party was plumb civilized—­this guy that wanted your goat.  He wanted to spoil your rep; he probably had conscientious scruples about bloodshed.  Early trainin’,” said Mr. Johnson admiringly, “is a wonderful thing!  And, after they found you wouldn’t fall for the husks and things, they went out to put a crimp in your bank roll.  Now, who is to gain by putting you on the blink, huh?”

“No one at all,” said Stan.  “You’re seein’ things at night!  What happened on the Cobre Trail to stir up your superstitions?”

“Two gay young lads—­punchers of Zurich’s—­tried to catch me with my gun unloaded.  That’s what!  And if herdin’ with them blasted baa-sheep hadn’t just about ruined your intellect, you’d know why, without asking,” said Pete.  “Look now!  I was so sure that you was bein’ systematically hornswoggled that, when two rank strangers made that sort of a ranikiboo play at me, I talked it out with myself, like this—­not out loud—­just me and Pete colloguing: 

“‘These gentlemen are pickin’ on you, Pete.  What’s that for?’ ‘Why,’ says Pete, ’that’s because you’re Stan’s pardner, of course.  These two laddie-bucks are some small part of the gang, bunch, or congregation that’s been preyin’ on Stan.’  ‘What they tryin’ to put over on Stan now?’ I asks, curiosity getting the better of my good manners.  ’Not to pry into private matters any,’ says I, ’but this thing is getting personal.  I can feel malicious animal magnetism coursin’ through every vein and leapin’ from crag to crag,’ says I.  ’A joke’s a joke, and I can take a joke as well as any man; but when I’m sick in my bed, and the undertaker comes to my house and looks into my window and says, “Darlin’!  I am waitin’ for thee!”—­that’s no joke.  And if Stanley Mitchell’s facetious friends begin any hilarity with me I’ll transact negotiations with ’em—­sure!  So I put it up to you, Petey—­square and aboveboard—­what are they tryin’ to work on Stan now?’

“‘To get his mine, you idjit!’ says Pete.  ‘Now be reasonable,’ says I.  ‘How’d they know we got any mine?’ ’Didn’t you tote a sample out of that blisterin’ old desert?’ says Pete.  ‘We did,’ I admits, ’just one little chunk the size of a red apple—­and it weighed near a couple of ton whilst we was perishin’ for water.  But we stuck to it closer than a rich brother-in-law,’ says I.  ‘You been had!’ jeers Pete.  ’What kind of talk is this?  You caught that off o’ Thorpe, over on the Malibu—­you been had!  Talk United States!  Do you mean I’ve been bunked?’ I spoke up sharp; but I was feelin’ pretty sick, for I just remembered that we didn’t register that sample when we mailed it to the assayer.