Adam, I believe, was the first man to express this opinion. His sons have been following in his footsteps ever since.

Came a night of heavy rain and wind. Billy Wingo, a lamp on the table at his elbow, was reading a Denver newspaper. A sudden gust drove a spatter of rain across the windows. There was a soft thump followed by a sliding sound against the outside door. Some one uttered in a woman's voice a m.u.f.fled wail.

Billy went at once to the door and lifted the latch. The wind pushed it back against him and flung a spray of wet into his face. There was something lying on the doorstep and sill, something that moved a little. Billy let the door fly open. The something was apparently a woman in distress. Billy bent down, endeavoring to slip his hands under her shoulders. But the woman was heavy and her clothing was very wet and slippery. Billy bent a little lower and--Smash!

"He's coming out of it," a voice was saying. "I saw his eyelids flicker."

"You hit him a mite too hard," declared another voice. "Y'oughta used a club instead of that wagon wrench."

"I didn't know how hard his head was," offered a third voice, "and we can't afford to take chances. You know that. Anybody, he's coming along all right, so what's the odds?"

"He's ruined that pillow," complained the first voice. "And I know he's bled on through the sheets into the mattress. Spoil the mattress, that will. Cake the feathers all up. Make 'em nubbly."

"Don't be so dainty, Sam," laughed the second voice. "You're so all-fired fat what's a rough mattress to you? Sleep on the floor, and you wouldn't know the difference."

Billy kept his eyes shut, although he was now completely conscious.

His head ached like forty. Seemed as if the whole top had come off and dozens of little devils were inside hammering like mad. He believed he knew the owners of those three voices. Sam Larder, Felix Craft and Tip O'Gorman. He opened his eyes. Yes, he was right. There they were, the three of them. But it was daylight, and a day of sunshine too.

And the last thing he remembered was a night of wind and rain.

Tip gave back his look with a smile. Sam Larder and Felix Craft did not smile. Their faces were serious.

"Glad to see you're coming round," said Tip O'Gorman. "Here, let me fix that bandage. Looks as if it might be slipping. How you feel--pretty good?"

"Pretty good--considering," replied Bill.

"That's fine, fine. Want a li'l something to eat?"

"Rather have a drink."

The cool water revived him like wine. He lay back on the pillows greatly refreshed. He thought his head ached a little less, perhaps.

"Where am I and how did I get here?"

"You're in my house," said Sam Larder. "You were--uh--brought here."

"After the roof feel on me?" said Billy, fingering the bandage round his head.

"Well, you see," said Tip, in some embarra.s.sment, "we knew you wouldn't have accepted our invitation unless you were knocked silly first. But I--I planned the whole thing, Bill--I didn't intend to keep you senseless as long as this. It's a matter of ten hours since you were hit. I didn't know but what maybe we were due to lose you, after all."

"That would have been a pity," said Billy.

"Wouldn't it? Yeah. Don't blame me for that crack, though. I told Crafty not to use anything made of iron. But I'm afraid he used his own judgment."

"I always do," said Felix Craft.

"Who was the woman?" inquired Billy.

"I was the woman," replied Craft demurely.

"That was one on me. But I'm still wonderin'. You fellers went to a lot of trouble to carry me clear out here. I suppose it's too much to hope you were seen doing it."

"I don't guess we were seen," said Tip. "We kind of took care not to be.

"How long do you count on boardin' me, Sam?"

"Just a li'l while," was the reply.

"No longer than is necessary," slipped in Tip, with emphasis on the last word.

"Necessary, huh. _Necessary_. I suppose you fellers think you'll be able to get Dan Slike off by kidnappin' me. You forget there's Riley Tyler."

"We know there's Riley Tyler," said Tip, "like we know Riley and Shotgun went to Hillsville yesterday and won't be back for three-four days. And about Dan Slike we don't care three whoops in h.e.l.l. To tell you the truth, Bill, I'm surprised you don't know us better than that.

_We_ three didn't have any hand in that Walton business."

"I didn't really think you did," said Billy frankly, "but knowing how you and Tuckleton----"

"No, no, Bill," interrupted Tip hastily, "don't go fussin' about Rafe.

That's a cat with another tail entirely. Your business right now this minute is with us. Our business is with you. Here we are. Here's you."

But Billy was apparently paying no further attention to Tip's words.

He was looking at the ceiling. He was smiling. He chuckled.

"Do you know," he said, glancing sidewise at Tip, "when I was a kid, I often wondered how it would feel to be kidnapped. I had a idea it would be romantic sort of. But it ain't, not a mite. I feel like I'd been on a tear--head, y'understand, and mouth all furry and _thirsty_!

Where's that pitcher? Oh, I can sit up all right."

He swung up to a sitting position with a lurch. "Here's how," he said, reaching for the pitcher.

He drank his fill and again lay down, supporting his head on a bent elbow.

"Crafty," he said severely, "why for are you monkeying with that gun?"

"I thought I had it hidden behind the table," replied Craft, shamefacedly depositing a six-shooter on the table in front of him.

He folded his arms behind the gun, but Billy noticed that the fingers of his right hand were touching the wood of the b.u.t.t.

"The truth is," said Tip, "that we intend to watch you pretty closely.

But you haven't any kick coming. You ain't gagged or hogtied even."

"Seeing that Sam's house is a mile out of town and a good eight hundred yards west of the Hillsville trail, gaggin' me and tying me up are hardly necessary. Sam, that water sure gave me a appet.i.te. I feel considerable better. Suppose now you send along the chambermaid with several eggs, more or less, let 'em lay, and two-three-four slices of nice ham, and some fried potatoes, and bread and b.u.t.ter, and a li'l jam if you have it--if not, I'll take what you've got handy and some coffee, black, with sugar. Better have her bring a full pot of coffee.

And Samuel, my own dear boyhood friend, will you send along the golden-haired chambermaid?"

"That's the way," approved Tip, smiling, as Sam Larder slumped kitchenward. "Make a joke of it. No sense in taking it to heart."

"Tip," said Bill, "I always knew you were an old scoundrel."

Tip looked hurt. "The scoundrel perhaps, and only _perhaps_, mind you, but I deny the age. I'm only a short fifty."

"Plenty of time for you to be hung yet," admitted Bill. "Felix, old settler, that gun of yours is pointing right at me. Is it easy on the trigger?"