“She was maybe standin’ up.”

“She was a-settin’ there,” said Tom Osby, frowning; “right there at the pianny herself.  Can’t you see her?  Don’t you ever sort of imagine things yourself, man?”

“God forbid!” said Dan Anderson.  “No, I can’t imagine things.  That’s fatal—­I try to forget things.”

“Well,” said Tom Osby, “I reckon I’ve been imaginin’ things.  Now, there she’s settin’, right at the pianny, and sort of lettin’ her fingers run up and down—­”

“Tra-la-loo-loo, loo-loo-la-la?” said Dan Anderson.

“Sure.  That’s just it.  Tra-la-la-loo, loo-la-la-la, up and down the whole shootin’ match.  And she sings!  Now what does she sing?  That song about Gingerbread?  That Mobile song?  No, not none.  It’s ’Annie Laurie’ she sings, man, it’s ‘Annie Laurie’!  Now, I freighted to El Paso before the railroad, and I know them boys.  They’ll tear up the house.”

“She’ll be wearin’ black lace and diamonds,” said Dan Anderson, irrelevantly; “and when she breathes she’ll swell up like a toy balloon.  She’ll bat her eyes.  They got to do those things.”

“Man,” said Tom Osby, “there’s times when I don’t like you.”

“Well, then, cut out the lace.  I’ll even leave off the diamonds.”

“She’s settin’ right there,” said Tom Osby, wagging his forefinger, “and she’s dressed in white—­”

“With a blue sash—­”

“Sure!  And she sings!  And it’s ‘Annie Laurie’!  And because I want my own share of things that’s for keeps, though I ain’t one of the sort that can do things for keeps, why, I want—­why, you see—­”

“Yes, Tom,” said Dan Anderson, gently, “I see.  Now, as you said, it’s only a few days’ drive, after all.  I’m goin’ along with you.  There’s watermelons near there—­”

“You are loco!”

“Not yet,” said his friend.  “I only meant to point out that the best melons these embalmed Greasers raise in their little tablecloth farmin’ operations is right down there in the valley at the foot of the Sacramentos.  Now, you may have noticed that sometimes a fellow ought to cover up his tracks.  What’s to hinder you and me just takin’ a little pasear down in toward the Sacramentos, on the southeast side, after a load of melons?  They’re better than cactus for the boys here.  That’s straight merchandisin’, and, besides, it’s Art.  And—­well, I think that’s the best way.

“We don’t all of us always get our share, Tom,” resumed Dan Anderson; “we don’t always get our share of the things that are for keeps; but it’s the right of every man to try.  Every once in a while, by just tryin’ and pluggin’ along on the dead square, a fellow gets something which turns out in the clean-up to be the sort that was for keeps, after all, even if it wasn’t just what he thought he wanted.”

“Then you’ll go along?”

“Si, amigo!  Yes, I’ll go along.”

They parted, Dan Anderson to seek his own lonely adobe.  There he closed the door, as though he feared intrusion.  The old restlessness coming over him, he paced up and down the narrow, cagelike room.  Presently he approached a tiny mirror that hung upon the wall, and stood looking into it intently.  “Fool!” he muttered.  “Liar, and fool, and coward—­you, you!  You’ll take care of Tom, will you?  But who’ll take care of you?”