“That’s so like you, Morkum. Can’t you imagine any fellow looking you up purely for the fun of the thing?”

“Well, not many do—not many,” answered the American in an apologetic tone. “But—”

“But this time you’ve hit the right nail on the head. There is something you can do for me, if any one can. You can put me in the way of doubling a given sum in the shortest possible time.”

“That all?” answered the other, almost disappointedly. “Reckon I can—and I’d do more than that for you—as you know. Silas B. Morkum ain’t the boy to forget—well, we know what. Now let’s hear all about it.”

Claverton told him. The tie of gratitude to which Morkum had referred went back to the time of the former’s earlier wanderings, when our friend had by the merest chance been able to do him a most important service, and the American had never forgotten it. He was a curious unit. By profession broker, money-lender, and half-a-dozen other things; in reality, such of his dealings as were most remunerative were known only to himself and to those immediately concerned.

“Well, then,” he said, reflectively, lighting up a long Havana and pushing the box across to his companion, “well, then—you want to turn over this sum and ain’t particular how?”

“Not in the least.”

“Then I can lay you on to something. But you are open to putting your hide pretty considerably in pawn?”

“Quite open. What is it? Mines in Sonora?”

“No. ’Tain’t that. Two years ago I sent a party on that lay. Twenty-three Western men, all well armed and mounted. Game chickens all round.”

“What then?”

“They are there yet. No one ever saw or heard of them again. Beckon the Apaches wiped ’em out. No. This is less risky; still, it is risky—tarnation so.”

“What is it?”

The other fixed his keen grey eyes upon Claverton for a moment. Then he delivered himself of just three words.

“The devil!” exclaimed Claverton, astonished, “I thought that game was played out long ago.”

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