"Well, you fellas can fight it out. I came over to say that them rurales got their hoss. But one of 'em let it slip, in Mexican, that they weren't through yet."
"So?" said Pat. "Well, you go ahead and feed the stock. We'll be over to the house poco tiempo."
Waring and the collector entered the cantina. For a long time they sat in silence, gazing at the peculiar half-lights as the sun drew down. Finally the collector turned to Waring.
"Has the game gone stale, Jim?"
Waring nodded. "I'm through. I am going to settle down. I've had my share of trouble."
"Here, too," said the collector. "I've put by enough to get a little place up north—cattle—and take it easy. That's why I stuck it out down here. Had any word from your folks recent?"
"Not for ten years."
"And that boy trailing with you?"
"Oh, he's just a kid I picked up in Sonora. No, my own boy is straight
American, if he's living now."
"You might stop by at Stacey, on the Santa Fé," said the collector casually. "There's some folks running a hotel up there that you used to know."