The sheriff motioned him to a chair, which he declined.  “Better sit down, Billy.  I want to talk to you.”

“Haven’t got time,” said Corliss.  “You know what I came for.”

“That’s just what I want to talk about.  See here, Billy, you’ve been hitting it up pretty steady this week.  Here’s the prospect.  John told me to hand you five a day for a week.  You got clothes, grub, and a place to sleep and all paid for.  You could go out to the ranch if you wanted to.  The week is up and you’re goin’ it just the same.  If you want any more money you’ll have to see John.  I give you all he left with me.”

“By God, that’s the limit!” exclaimed Corliss.

“I guess it is, Billy.  Have a cigar?”

Corliss flung out of the office and tramped across to the saloon.  He called for whiskey and, seating himself at one of the tables, drank steadily.  Fadeaway wasn’t such a fool, after all.  But robbery!  Was it robbery?  Eighteen hundred dollars would mean San Francisco . . .  Corliss closed his eyes.  Out of the red mist of remembrance a girl’s face appeared.  The heavy-lidded eyes and vivid lips smiled.  Then other faces, and the sound of music and laughter.  He nodded to them and raised his glass. . . .  As the raw whiskey touched his lips the red mist swirled away.  The dingy interior of the saloon, the booted and belted riders, the grimy floor littered with cigarette-ends, the hanging oil-lamp with its blackened chimney, flashed up and spread before him like the speeding film of a picture, stationary upon the screen of his vision, yet trembling toward a change of scene.  A blur appeared in the doorway.  In the nightmare of his intoxication he welcomed the change.  Why didn’t some one say something or do something?  And the figure that had appeared, why should it pause and speak to one of the men at the bar, and not come at once to him.  They were laughing.  He grew silently furious.  Why should they laugh and talk and keep him waiting?  He knew who had come in.  Of course he knew!  Did Fadeaway think to hide himself behind the man at the bar?  Then Fadeaway should not wear chaps with silver conchas that glittered and gleamed as he shifted his leg and turned his back.  “Said he was my friend,” mumbled Corliss.  “My friend!  Huh!” Was it a friend that would leave him sitting there, alone?

He rose and lurched to the bar.  Some one steadied him as he swayed.  He stiffened and struck the man in the face.  He felt himself jerked backward and the shock cleared his vision.  Opposite him two men held Fadeaway, whose mouth was bleeding.  The puncher was struggling to get at his gun.

Corliss laughed.  “Got you that time, you thief!”

“He’s crazy drunk,” said one of the men.  “Don’t get het up, Fade.  He ain’t packin’ a gun.”

Fadeaway cursed and wiped the blood from his mouth.  He was playing his part well.  Accident had helped him.  To all intents and purposes they were open enemies.