“Adios!” said Bill, swinging into the saddle.

“Hold on, Bill!  Give Johnson back his money,” said Jim.

“Oh, you keep it.  You won it fair.  I didn’t go to the finish.”

“Look here—­what do you think I am?  You take this money, or I’ll be sore as a boil.  There!  So long, old hand!  Be good!” He spurred after Bill.

Mr. Johnson brought the repeater from the dugout and saddled old Midnight.  As he pulled the cinches tight, he gazed regretfully at his late companions, sky-lined as they topped a rise.

“There!” said Mr. Johnson with conviction.  “There goes a couple of right nice boys!”

CHAPTER II

The immemorial traditions of Old Spain, backed by the counsel of a brazen sun, made a last stand against the inexorable centuries:  Tucson was at siesta; noonday lull was drowsy in the corridors of the Merchants and Miners Bank.  Green shades along the south guarded the cool and quiet spaciousness of the Merchants and Miners, flooded with clear white light from the northern windows.  In the lobby a single client, leaning on the sill at the note-teller’s window, meekly awaited the convenience of the office force.

The Castilian influence had reduced the office force, at this ebb hour of business, to a spruce, shirt-sleeved young man, green-vizored as to his eyes, seated at a mid-office desk, quite engrossed with mysterious clerical matters.

The office force had glanced up at Mr. Johnson’s first entrance, but only to resume its work at once.  Such industry is not the custom; among the assets of any bank, courtesy is the most indispensable item.  Mr. Johnson was not unversed in the ways of urbanity; the purposed and palpable incivility was not wasted upon him; nor yet the expression conveyed by the back of the indefatigable clerical person—­a humped, reluctant, and rebellious back.  If ever a back steeled itself to carry out a distasteful task according to instructions, this was that back.  Mr. Pete Johnson sighed in sympathy.

The minutes droned by.  A clock, of hitherto unassuming habit, became clamorous; it echoed along the dreaming corridors.  Mr. Johnson sighed again.

The stone sill upon which he leaned reflected from its polished surface a face carved to patience; but if the patient face had noted its own reflection it might have remarked—­and adjusted—­eyebrows not so patient, flattened to a level; and a slight quiver in the tip of a predatory nose.  The pen squeaked across glazed paper.  Mr. Johnson took from his pocket a long, thin cigar and a box of safety matches.

The match crackled, startling in the silence; the clerical person turned in his chair and directed at the prospective customer a stare so baleful that the cigar was forgotten.  The flame nipped Johnson’s thumb; he dropped the match on the tiled floor and stepped upon it.  The clerk hesitated and then rose.