The policeman smiled. "'Black Mose' was killed in San Juan last summer."
Harold received this news gravely. "Sorry for him, but I'm the man. You'll find my name on my revolver, the big one—not the little one. I'm all the 'Black Mose' there is. If you'll give me a chance I'll rope a steer with you for blood or whisky; I'm thirsty."
"Well now," said the policeman, "you be quiet till the doctor comes, and I'll go through your valise." After a hasty examination he said: "Damned little here, and no revolvers of any kind. Does he eat here?"
"No, he only hires this room."
"Mebbe he don't eat anywhere; he looks to me like a hungry man."
"Dot's what I think," said the maid. "I'll go pring him some soup."
The prisoner calmly said: "Too late now; my stomach is all dried up."
"Haven't you any folks?" the policeman asked.
Harold seemed to pause for thought. "I believe I have, but I can't think. Mary could tell you."