* * * * *

Three men sat in the office of the Ortez Mines, smoking and saying little.  Donovan, the manager; the paymaster, Quigley; and the assistant manager, a young American fresh from the East.  Waring’s name was mentioned.  Three days ago he had ridden south after the bandits.  He might return.  He might not.

“I’d like to see him ride in,” said Donovan, turning to the paymaster.

“And you hate him at that,” said Quigley.

“I don’t say so.  But if he was paymaster here, he’d put the fear of God into some of those greasers.”

Quigley flushed.  “You didn’t hire me to chase greasers, Donovan.  I’m no gunman.”

“No,” said Donovan slowly.  “I had you sized up.”

“Oh, cut out that stuff!” said the assistant manager, smiling.  “That won’t balance the pay-roll.”

“No.  But I’m going to cut down expenses.”  And Donovan eyed Quigley.  “Jim Waring is too dam’ high and mighty to suit me.  Every time he tackles a job he is the big boss till it’s done.  If he comes back, all right.  If he don’t—­we’ll charge it up to profit and loss.  But his name goes off the pay-roll to-day.”

Quigley grinned.  He knew that Donovan was afraid of Waring.  Waring was the one man in Donovan’s employ that he could not bully.  Moreover, the big Irishman hated to pay Waring’s price, which was stiff.

“How about a raise of twenty-five a month, then?” queried Quigley.

To his surprise, Donovan nodded genially.  “You’re on, Jack.  And that goes the minute Waring shows up with the money.  If he doesn’t show up—­why, that raise can wait.”

“Then I’ll just date the change to-day,” said Quigley.  “Take a look down the street.”

Donovan rose heavily and stepped to the window.  “By God, it’s Waring, all right!  He’s afoot.  What’s that he’s packing?”

“A canteen,” said the assistant manager.  “This is a dry country.”

Donovan returned to his desk.  “Get busy, at something.  We don’t want to sit here like a lot of stuffed buzzards.  We’re glad to see Waring back, of course.  You two can drift out when I get to talking business with him.”

Quigley nodded and took up his pen.  The assistant manager studied a map.

Waring strode in briskly.  The paymaster glanced up and nodded, expecting Donovan to speak.  But Donovan sat with his back toward Waring, his head wreathed in tobacco smoke.  He was apparently absorbed in a letter.

The gunman paused halfway across the office.  Quigley fidgeted.  The assistant superintendent stole a glance at Donovan’s broad back and smiled.  All three seemed waiting for Waring to speak.  Quigley rather enjoyed the situation.  The assistant superintendent’s scalp prickled with restrained excitement.

He rose and stepped to Donovan.  “Mr. Donovan, Mr. Waring is here.”

“Thanks,” said Waring, nodding to the assistant.