uileless face.
Marsh shook his head and made a bear-trap mouth.

"Why don't you go to Prescott, Johnson? There's where your stuff is. They
know you better than we do."

"Why, Mr. Marsh, I don't want to go to Prescott. Takes too long. I need
this money right away."

"Really--but that is hardly our affair, is it?" A frosty smile
accompanied the query.

"Aw, what's wrong? Isn't that security all right?" urged Pete.

"No doubt the security is exactly as you say," said the banker, "but your
property is in another county, a long distance from here. We would have
to make inquiries and send the mortgage to be filed in Prescott--very
inconvenient. Besides, as I told you before, money is tight. We regret
that we cannot see our way to accommodate you. This is final!"

"Shucks!" said Pete, crestfallen and disappointed; he lingered
uncertainly, twisting his hat brim between his hands.

"That is final," repeated the banker. "Was there anything else?"

"A check to cash," said Pete humbly.

He went back into the lobby, much chastened; the spring lock of the door
snapped behind him.

"Wait on this gentleman, if you please, Mr. Hudson," said Marsh, and
busied himself at a cabinet.

Hudson rose from his desk and moved across to the cashier's window. His
lip curved disdainfully. Mr. Johnson's feet were brisk and cheerful on
the tiles. When his face appeared at the window, his hat and the long
black cigar were pushed up to angles parallel, jaunty and perilous. He
held in his hand a sheaf of papers belted with a rubber band; he slid
over the topmost of these papers, face down.

"It's endorsed," he said, pointing to his heavy signature.

"How will you have it, sir?" Hudson inquired with a smile of mocking
deference.

"Quick and now," said Pete.

Hudson flipped over the check. The sneer died from his face. His tongue
licked at his paling lips.

"What does this mean?" he stammered.

"Can't you read?" said Pete.

The cashier did not answer. He turned and called across the room:

"Mr. Marsh! Mr. Marsh!"

Marsh came quickly, warned by the startled note in the cashier's voice.
Hudson passed him the check with hands that trembled a little. The
vice-president's face mottled with red and white. The check was made
to the order of P.W. Johnson; it was signed by Henry Bergman, sheriff
of Pima County, and the richest cowman of the Santa Cruz Valley; the
amount was eighty-six thousand dollars.

Marsh glowered at Johnson in a col