his gloves. "I've arranged to have
the horse shipped to me by express. If you don't mind, I wish you
would see that he is loaded properly and that he has food and water
before the car leaves--that is"--and Andover cleared his throat--"if
you're around town tomorrow. The sheriff seems to allow you a pretty
free hand--possibly because I assured him that you were not physically
fit to--er--ride a horse. Since I saw that bank-book of yours, I've
been thinking more about your case. If I were you I would hire the
best legal talent in El Paso, and fight that case to a finish. You can
pay for it."

"You mean for me to hire a lawyer to tell 'em I didn't kill Sam Brent?"

"Not exactly that--but hire a lawyer to _prove_ to the judge and jury
that you didn't kill him."

"Then a fella's got to pay to prove he didn't do somethin' that he's
arrested for, and never done?"

"Often enough. And he's lucky if he has the money to do it. Think it
over--and let me know how you are getting along. Miss Gray will be
interested also."

"All right. Thanks, Doc. I ain't forgittin' you folks."

Andover waved his hand as he swung the car round and swept out of town.
Pete watched him as he sped out across the mesa.

Sheriff Owen was standing in the livery-stable door across the street
as Pete turned and started toward him. Midway across the street Pete
felt a sharp pain shoot through his chest. It seemed as though the air
had been suddenly shut from his lungs and that he could neither speak
nor breathe. He heard an exclamation and saw Owen coming toward him.
Owen, who had seen him stop and sway, was asking a question. A dim
blur of faces--an endless journey along a street and up a narrow
stairway--and Pete lay staring at yellow wall-paper heavily sprinkled
with impossible blue roses. Owen was giving him whiskey--a sip at a
time.

"How do you feel now?" queried the sheriff.

"I'm all right. Somethin' caught me quick--out there."

"Your lungs have been working overtime. Too much fresh air all at
once. You'll feel better tomorrow."

"I reckon you won't have to set up and watch the front door," said
Pete, smiling faintly.

"Or the back door. You're in the Sanborn House--room 11, second floor,
and there's only one other floor and that's downstairs. If you want
any thing--just pound on the floor. They'll understand."

"About payin' for my board--"

"That's all right. I got your money--and your other stuff that I mig