nsiderable sum of money, and
you must be careful of them. A few years ago, when our enmity was not so
strong, Mr. Genslinger and I had some business dealings with each
other. I thought it as well just now, considering that we are so openly
opposed, to terminate the whole affair, and break off relations. We came
to a settlement a few days ago. These are the final papers. They must be
given to him in person, Presley. You understand."

Presley cantered on, turning into the county road and holding northward
by the mammoth watering tank and Broderson's popular windbreak. As he
passed Caraher's, he saw the saloon-keeper in the doorway of his place,
and waved him a salutation which the other returned.

By degrees, Presley had come to consider Caraher in a more favourable
light. He found, to his immense astonishment, that Caraher knew
something of Mill and Bakounin, not, however, from their books, but
from extracts and quotations from their writings, reprinted in the
anarchistic journals to which he subscribed. More than once, the two had
held long conversations, and from Caraher's own lips, Presley heard
the terrible story of the death of his wife, who had been accidentally
killed by Pinkertons during a "demonstration" of strikers. It invested
the saloon-keeper, in Presley's imagination, with all the dignity of the
tragedy. He could not blame Caraher for being a "red." He even wondered
how it was the saloon-keeper had not put his theories into practice, and
adjusted his ancient wrong with his "six inches of plugged gas-pipe."
Presley began to conceive of the man as a "character."

"You wait, Mr. Presley," the saloon-keeper had once said, when Presley
had protested against his radical ideas. "You don't know the Railroad
yet. Watch it and its doings long enough, and you'll come over to my way
of thinking, too."

It was about half-past seven when Presley reached Bonneville. The
business part of the town was as yet hardly astir; he despatched his
manuscript, and then hurried to the office of the "Mercury." Genslinger,
as he feared, had not yet put in appearance, but the janitor of the
building gave Presley the address of the editor's residence, and it was
there he found him in the act of sitting down to breakfast. Presley was
hardly courteous to the little man, and abruptly refused his offer of a
drink. He delivered Magnus's envelope to him and departed.

It had occurred to him that it would not do to present himself at Quien