“Yes, I remember you were incredulous,” said the editor, smiling.

“Well, I take it all back!  I reckon he told all he knew.  I was wrong!  I cave!”

“Why?” asked the editor wonderingly.

“Well, I have been through the mill myself!”

He unbuttoned his shirt collar, pointed to his neck, which showed a slight abrasion and a small livid mark of strangulation at the throat, and added, with a grim smile, “And I’ve got about as much proof as I want.”

The editor put down his pen and stared at him.

“You see, Mr. Grey, it was partly your fault!  When you bedeviled me about gettin’ that news, and allowed I might try my hand at reportin’, I was fool enough to take up the challenge.  So once or twice, when I was off duty here, I hung around the Ramierez shanty.  Once I went in thar when they were gamblin’; thar war one or two Americans thar that war winnin’ as far as I could see, and was pretty full o’ that aguardiente that they sell thar—­that kills at forty rods.  You see, I had a kind o’ suspicion that ef thar was any foul play goin’ on it might be worked on these fellers arter they were drunk, and war goin’ home with thar winnin’s.”

“So you gave up your theory of the colonel being attacked from jealousy?” said the editor, smiling.

“Hol’ on!  I ain’t through yet!  I only reckoned that ef thar was a gang of roughs kept thar on the premises they might be used for that purpose, and I only wanted to ketch em at thar work.  So I jest meandered into the road when they war about comin’ out, and kept my eye skinned for what might happen.  Thar was a kind o’ corral about a hundred yards down the road, half adobe wall, and a stockade o’ palm’s on top of it, about six feet high.  Some of the palm’s were off, and I peeped through, but thar warn’t nobody thar.  I stood thar, alongside the bank, leanin’ my back agin one o’ them openin’s, and jest watched and waited.

“All of a suddent I felt myself grabbed by my coat collar behind, and my neck-handkercher and collar drawn tight around my throat till I couldn’t breathe.  The more I twisted round, the tighter the clinch seemed to get.  I couldn’t holler nor speak, but thar I stood with my mouth open, pinned back agin that cursed stockade, and my arms and legs movin’ up and down, like one o’ them dancin’ jacks!  It seems funny, Mr. Grey—­I reckon I looked like a darned fool—­but I don’t wanter feel ag’in as I did jest then.  The clinch o’ my throat got tighter; everything got black about me; I was jest goin’ off and kalkilatin’ it was about time for you to advertise for another foreman, when suthin broke—­fetched away!