“Si， si—mil gracias， senor.” Ylario tried to kneel uponthe floor in his gratitude， but the cattleman kicked at himbenevolently， growling， “None of your opery-house antics，now.”
Ten minutes later Ylario came from McGuire’s roomand stood before Raidler.
“The little senor，” he announced， “presents hiscompliments” （Raidler credited Ylario with the preliminary）“and desires some pounded ice， one hot bath， one ginfeez-z， that the windows be all closed， toast， one shave， oneNewyorkheral’， cigarettes， and to send one telegram.”
Raidler took a quart bottle of whisky from his medicinecabinet. “Here， take him this，” he said.
Thus was instituted the reign of terror at the SolitoRanch. For a few weeks McGuire blustered and boastedand swaggered before the cow-punchers who rode in formiles around to see this latest importation of Raidler’s. Hewas an absolutely new experience to them. He explainedto them all the intricate points of sparring and the tricksof training and defence. He opened to their minds’ viewall the indecorous life of a tagger after professional sports.
His jargon of slang was a continuous joy and surprise tothem. His gestures， his strange poses， his frank ribaldry oftongue and principle fascinated them. He was like a beingfrom a new world.
Strange to say， this new world he had entered did notexist to him. He was an utter egoist of bricks and mortar.
He had dropped out， he felt， into open space for a time，and all it contained was an audience for his reminiscences.
Neither the limitless freedom of the prairie days nor thegrand hush of the close-drawn， spangled nights touchedhim. All the hues of Aurora could not win him from thepink pages of a sporting journal. “Get something fornothing，” was his mission in life； “Thirty-seventh” Streetwas his goal.
Nearly two months after his arrival he began to complainthat he felt worse. It was then that he became the ranch’sincubus， its harpy， its Old Man of the Sea. He shut himselfin his room like some venomous kobold or flibbertigibbet，whining， complaining， cursing， accusing. The keynote ofhis plaint was that he had been inveigled into a gehennaagainst his will； that he was dying of neglect and lack ofcomforts. With all his dire protestations of increasingillness， to the eye of others he remained unchanged. Hiscurrant-like eyes were as bright and diabolic as ever； hisvoice was as rasping； his callous face， with the skin drawntense as a drum-head， had no flesh to lose. A flush onhis prominent cheek bones each afternoon hinted that aclinical thermometer might have revealed a symptom， andpercussion might have established the fact that McGuirewas breathing with only one lung， but his appearanceremained the same.
In constant attendance upon him was Ylario， whomthe coming reward of the mayordomoship must havegreatly stimulated， for McGuire chained him to a bitterexistence. The air—the man’s only chance for life—hecommanded to be kept out by closed windows and drawncurtains. The room was always blue and foul with cigarettesmoke； whosoever entered it must sit， suffocating， andlisten to the imp’s interminable gasconade concerning hisscandalous career.
The oddest thing of all was the relation existingbetween McGuire and his benefactor. The attitude ofthe invalid toward the cattleman was something like thatof a peevish， perverse child toward an indulgent parent.
When Raidler would leave the ranch McGuire wouldfall into a fit of malevolent， silent sullenness. When hereturned， he would be met by a string of violent andstinging reproaches. Raidler’s attitude toward his chargewas quite inexplicable in its way. The cattleman seemedactually to assume and feel the character assigned to himby McGuire’s intemperate accusations—the character oftyrant and guilty oppressor. He seemed to have adoptedthe responsibility of the fellow’s condition， and he alwaysmet his tirades with a pacific， patient， and even remorsefulkindness that never altered.
One day Raidler said to him， “Try more air， son. Youcan have the buckboard and a driver every day if you’llgo. Try a week or two in one of the cow camps. I’ll fixyou up plumb comfortable. The ground， and the air nextto it—them’s the things to cure you. I knowed a manfrom Philadelphy， sicker than you are， got lost on theGuadalupe， and slept on the bare grass in sheep campsfor two weeks. Well， sir， it started him getting well， whichhe done. Close to the ground—that’s where the medicinein the air stays. Try a little hossback riding now. There’s agentle pony—”
“What’ve I done to yer？” screamed McGuire. “Did Iever doublecross yer？ Did I ask you to bring me here？
Drive me out to your camps if you wanter； or stick a knifein me and save trouble. Ride！ I can’t lift my feet. I couldn’tsidestep a jab from a five-year-old kid. That’s what yourd—d ranch has done for me. There’s nothing to eat，nothing to see， and nobody to talk to but a lot of Reubenswho don’t know a punching bag from a lobster salad.”
“It’s a lonesome place， for certain，” apologised Raidlerabashedly. “We got plenty， but it’s rough enough. Anythingyou think of you want， the boys’ll ride up and fetch itdown for you.”
It was Chad Murchison， a cow-puncher from the CircleBar outfit， who first suggested that McGuire’s illness wasfraudulent. Chad had brought a basket of grapes for himthirty miles， and four out of his way， tied to his saddlehorn.
After remaining in the smoke-tainted room for awhile， he emerged and bluntly confided his suspicions toRaidler.
“His arm，” said Chad， “is harder’n a diamond. Heinterduced me to what he called a shore-perplexus punch，and ’twas like being kicked twice by a mustang. He’splayin’ it low down on you， Curt. He ain’t no sicker’n I am.
I hate to say it， but the runt’s workin’ you for range andshelter.”
The cattleman’s ingenuous mind refused to entertainChad’s view of the case， and when， later， he came to applythe test， doubt entered not into his motives.
