with recriminatory bitterness. "You're so crooked I wouldn't trust you around the corner of the house."
"If I ever pick up a gun again," said Peck, lifting his hand as if taking his oath on it, "you can shoot me with a bootjack on sight. I've had enough of that dan gun, I wish to criminy I never saw it. I tell you, Rawlins, I'm done with guns; I'm through."
"If I thought you were tellin' the truth, Peck, I'd let you go. But how am I to know?"
"Well, I tell you, Rawlins: you come with me to Lost Cabin and hold that gun of yours agin my ribs till you see me on the stage hittin' it up for the railroad, if you doubt my word. I tell you I'm cured. I wouldn't no more touch another gun than I'd pick up a red-hot horseshoe. Give me a bill off that pile to pay my way to the railroad and I'll ride the bumpers to St. Joe. You can keep the rest; you can tell her I took it all."
"I don't want any of it, Peck. Leave me the wallet and this paper you had drawn up for me to sign. I can use them. Take the rest and go."
Peck jumped at the word as if he had heard thunder. He stiffened eagerly, his red eyes shining.
"Say, you ain't stringin' me, are you, Rawlins?" he asked doubtfully.
"Take it and go—before I change my mind."
Peck grabbed the money and put it in the side pocket of his notable bullet-proof jumper, snatched his big hat off the side of bacon and broke for the door. He stuck his head out for a look around, tooling it in his peculiar way as if testing the wind before hoisting his sail. Then he set out one foot, cautiously, with a long, strid-
