Still, he was afraid Corliss would talk, so he laughed and extended his hand.  “Shake, Billy.  I guess you didn’t know what you were doin’.  I was tryin’ to keep you from fallin’.”

Corliss stared at the other with unwinking eyes.

Fadeaway laughed and turned toward the bar.  “Ought to hand him one, but he’s all in now, I reckon.  That’s what a fella gets for mixin’ up with kids.  Set ’em up, Joe.”

Left to himself Corliss stared about stupidly.  Then he started for the doorway.

As he passed Fadeaway, the latter turned and seized his arm.  “Come on up and forget it, Billy.  You and me’s friends, ain’t we?”

The cowboy, by sheer force of his personality, dominated the now repentant Corliss, whose stubbornness had given way to tearful retraction and reiterated apology.  Of course they were friends!

They drank and Fadeaway noticed the other’s increasing pallor.  “Jest about one more and he’ll take a sleep,” soliloquized the cowboy.  “In the mornin’ ’s when I ketch him, raw, sore, and ready for anything.”

One of the cowboys helped Corliss to his room at the Palace.  Later Fadeaway entered the hotel, asked for a room, and clumped upstairs.  He rose early and knocked at Corliss’s door, then entered without waiting for a response.

He wakened Corliss, who sat up and stared at him stupidly.  “Mornin’, Billy.  How’s the head?”

“I don’t know yet.  Got any cash, Fade?  I’m broke.”

“Sure.  What you want?”

Corliss made a gesture, at which the other laughed.  “All right, pardner.  I’ll fan it for the medicine.”

When he returned to the room, Corliss was up and dressed.  Contrary to Fadeaway’s expectations, the other was apparently himself, although a little too bright and active to be normal.

“Guess I got noisy last night,” said Corliss, glancing at Fadeaway’s swollen lip.

“Forget it!  Have some of this.  Then I got to fan it.”

“Where are you going?”

“Me?  Over to the Blue.  Got a job waitin’ for me.”

Corliss’s fingers worked nervously.  “When did you say the Concho paid off?” he queried, avoiding the other’s eye.

Fadeaway’s face expressed surprise.  “The Concho?  Why, next Monday.  Why?”

“Oh—­nothing.  I was just wondering . . .”

“Want to send any word to Jack?” asked the cowboy.

“No, I don’t.  Thanks, just the same, Fade.”

“Sure!  Well, I guess I’ll be goin’.”

“Wait a minute.  Don’t be in a rush.  I was thinking . . .”

Fadeaway strode to the window and stood looking out on the street.  His apparent indifference was effective.

“Say, Fade, do you think we could—­could get away with it?”

“With what?” exclaimed the cowboy, turning.

“Oh, you know!  What you said yesterday.”

“Guess I said a whole lot yesterday that I forgot this mornin’.  I get to joshin’ when I’m drinkin’ bug-juice.  What you gettin’ at?”