Waring thanked him with a glance. "We don't need a drink and the sun is down. Where do you eat?"
"We'll get Jack to rustle some grub. You and the boy can bunk in the office. I'll take care of your horse."
"Thanks, Pat. But you spoke of going north. I wouldn't if I were you.
They'll get you."
"I had thought of that. But I'm going to take that same chance. I'm plumb sick of the border."
"If they do—" And Waring rose.
The collector's hard-lined face softened for an instant. He thrust out his bony hand. "I'll leave that to you, Jim."
And that night, because each was a gunman unsurpassed in his grim profession, they laughed and talked about things trivial, leaving the deeper currents undisturbed. And the assistant collector, eating with them in the adobe back of the office, wondered that two such men found nothing more serious to talk about than the breeding of horses and the growing of garden truck.
Late that night the assistant awoke to find that the collector was not in bed. He rose and stalked to the window. Across from the adobe he saw the grim face of the collector framed in the office window. He was smoking a cigar and gazing toward the south, his long arm resting on the sill and his chin in his hand.
"Ole fool!" muttered the assistant affectionately. "That there Jim
Waring must sure be some hombre to make Pat lose any sleep."