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 capable of killing an enemy under the open sky, and of sleeping soundly after his death, who yet denounce the least infraction of the meanest rule that ever masqueraded as law. It is fine to sit with a man who might have been a desperado if he had been born where the sun shines, and to hear him talk so peaceably that one might believe he was meant for a wet-nurse, and only missed his destiny by being changed at birth. And here was Tom Willett asking what he was to do.

"When do you start?" I asked.

In another sense he started then. "Why—what?"

"When do you sail?"

"I want your advice. You know these places; I want to bring this man to justice."

I told him he couldn't do it. There was no evidence.

"He killed Jack and owns to it."

"But he says Jack pulled on him—that is, got his six-shooter out."

"I don't believe it."

I patted his shoulder. "Oh yes, you do.