“I notice your old black ain’t much gun-shy, either,” ventured Bill.

“See here—­you!” said the big Texan.  “You talk pretty biggity.  It’s mighty easy to run a whizzer when you’ve got the only loaded gun in camp.  If I had one damned cartridge left it would be different.”

“Never mind,” said Johnson kindly.  “I’ll give you one!”

Rising, he twirled the cylinder of his gun and extracted his three cartridges.  He threw one far down the hillslope; he dropped one on the ground beside him; he tossed the last one in the sand at the Texan’s feet.

Jim, from Texas, looked at the cartridge without animation; he looked into Pete Johnson’s frosty eyes; he kicked the cartridge back.

“I lay ’em down right here,” he stated firmly.  “I like a damned fool; but you suit me too well.”

He stalked away toward his horse with much dignity.  He stopped halfway, dropped upon a box, pounded his thigh and gave way to huge and unaffected laughter; in which Bill joined a moment later.

“Oh, you little bandy-legged old son-of-a-gun!” Jim roared.  “You crafty, wily, cunnin’ old fox!  I’m for you!  Of all the holy shows, you’ve made Bill and me the worst—­’specially me.  ‘There, there!’ you says, consolin’ me up like I was a kid with a cracked jug.  ’There, there!  Never mind—­I’ll give you one!’ Deah, oh, deah!  I’ll never be able to keep this still—­never in the world.  I’m bound to tell it on myself!” He wiped tears from his eyes and waved his hand helplessly.  “Take the ranch, stranger.  She’s yours.  I wouldn’t touch you if you was solid gold and charges prepaid.”

“Oh, don’t make a stranger of me!” begged Pete.  “You was callin’ me by the name of Johnson half an hour ago.  Forgot yourself, likely.”

“Did I?” said Jim indifferently.  “No odds.  You’ve got my number, anyway.  And I thought we was so devilish sly!”

“Well, boys, thank you for the dinner and all; but I’d best be jogging.  Got to catch that train.”

Knitting his brows reflectively he turned a questioning eye upon his hosts.  But Shorty Bill took the words from his mouth.

“I’m like Jim:  I’ve got a-plenty,” he said.  “But there’s a repeating rifle in the shack, if you don’t want to risk us.  You can leave it at Silverbell for us if you want to—­at the saloon.  And we can ride off the other way, so you’ll be sure.”

“Maybe that’ll be best—­considerin’,” said Pete.  “I’ll leave the gun.”

“See here, Johnson,” said Jim stiffly.  “We’ve thrown ’em down, fair and square.  I think you might trust us.”

Pete scratched his head in some perplexity.

“I think maybe I might if it was only myself to think of.  But I’m representing another man’s interest too.  I ain’t takin’ no chances.”

“Yes—­I noticed you was one of them prudent guys,” murmured Jim.

Pete ignored the interruption.

“So, not rubbin’ it in or anything, we’d best use Bill’s plan.  You lads hike off back the way I come, and I’ll take your rifle and drag it.  So long!  Had a good time with you.”