THE MAN DOWNSTAIRS
Pete did not return to the veranda to finish his puzzle game with
little Ruth. He smiled rather grimly as he realized that he had a
puzzle game of his own to solve. He lay on the cot and his eyes closed
as he reviewed the vivid events in his life, from the beginning of the
trail, at Concho, to its end, here in El Paso. It seemed to spread out
before him like a great map: the desert and its towns, the hills and
mesas, trails and highways over which men scurried like black and red
ants, commingling, separating, hastening off at queer tangents, meeting
in combat, disappearing in crevices, reappearing and setting off again
in haste, searching for food, bearing strange burdens, scrambling
blindly over obstacles--collectively without seeming purpose--yet
individually bent upon some quest, impetuous and headstrong in their
strange activities. "And gittin' nowhere," soliloquized Pete, "except
in trouble."
He thought of the letter from Bailey, and, sitting up, re-read it
slowly. So Steve Gary had survived, only to meet the inevitable end of
his kind. Well, Gary was always hunting trouble . . . Roth, the
storekeeper at Concho, ought to have the number of that gun which Pete
packed. If the sheriff of Sanborn was an old-timer he would know that
a man who packed a gun for business reasons did not go round the
country experimenting with different makes and calibers. Only the
"showcase" boys in the towns swapped guns. Ed Brevoort had always used
a Luger. Pete wondered if there had been any evidence of the caliber
of the bullet which had killed Brent. If the sheriff were an old-timer
such evidence would not be overlooked.
Pete got up and wandered out to the veranda. The place was deserted.
He suddenly realized that those who were able had gone to their noon
meal. He had forgotten about that. He walked back to his room and sat
on the edge of his cot. He was lonesome and dispirited. He was not
hungry, but he felt decidedly empty. This was the first time that
Doris had allowed him to miss a meal, and it was her fault! She might
have called him. But what did she care? In raw justice to her--why
_should_ she care?
Pete's brooding eyes brightened as Doris came in with a tray. She had
thought that he had rather have his dinner there. "I noticed that you
did not come down with the others," she said.
Pete was angry with himself. Adam-like he said he wasn't hungry anyhow.
"Then I'll take it back," said Doris sweetly,
Adam-like, Pete decided that he was hungry. "Miss Gray," he blurted,
"I--I'm a doggone short-horn! I'm goin' to eat. I sure want to square
myself."
"For what?"
Doris was gazing at him with a serene directness that made him feel
that his clothing was several sizes too large for him. He realized
that generalities would hardly serve his turn just then.
"I was settin' here feelin' sore at the whole doggone outfit," he
explained. "Sore at you--and everybody."
"Well?" said Doris unsmilingly.
"I'm askin' you to forgit that I was sore at you." Pete was not
ordinarily of an apologetic turn, and he felt that he pretty thoroughly
squared himself.
"It really doesn't matter," said Doris, as she placed his tray on the
table and turned to go.
"I reckon you're right." And his dark eyes grew moody again.
"There's a man in the reception-room waiting to see you," said Doris.
"I told him you were having your dinner."
"Another one, eh? Oh, I was forgittin'. I got a letter from Jim
Bailey"--Pete fumbled in his shirt--"and I thought mebby--"
"I hope it's good news."
"It sure is! Would you mind readin' it--to yourself--sometime?"
"I--think I'd rather not," said Doris hesitatingly.
Pete's face showed so plainly that he was hurt that Doris regretted her
refusal to read the letter. To make matters worse--for himself--Pete
asked that exceedingly irritating and youthful question, "Why?" which
elicits that distinctly unsatisfactory feminine answer, "Because."
That lively team "Why" and "Because" have run away with more chariots
of romance, upset more matrimonial bandwagons, and spilled more beans
than all the other questions and answers men and women have uttered
since that immemorial hour when Adam made the mistake of asking Eve why
she insisted upon his eating an apple right after breakfast.
Doris was not indifferent to his request that she read the letter, but
she was unwilling to let Pete know it, and a little fearful that he
might interpret her interest for just what it was--the evidence of a
greater solicitude for his welfare than she cared to have him know.
Pete, like most lusty sons of saddle-leather, shied at even the shadow
of sentiment--in this instance shying at his own shadow. He rode wide
of the issue, turning from the pleasant vista of who knows what
imaginings, to face the imperative challenge of immediate necessity,
which was, first, to eat something, and then to meet the man who waited
for him downstairs who, Pete surmised, was the sheriff of Sanborn
County.
"If you don't mind tellin' him I'll come down as soon as I eat," said
Pete as he pulled up a chair.
Doris nodded and turned to leave. Pete glanced up. She had not gone.
"Your letter,"--and Doris proffered the letter which he had left on the
cot. Pete was about to take it when he glanced up at her. She was
smiling at him. "You don't know how funny you look when you frown and
act--like--like a spoiled child," she laughed. "Aren't you ashamed of
yourself?"
"I--I reckon I am," said Pete, grinning boyishly.
"Ashamed of yourself?"
"Nope! A spoiled kid, like you said. And I ain't forgittin' who
spoiled me."
The letter, the man downstairs and all that his presence implied, past
and future possibilities, were forgotten in the brief glance that Doris
gave him as she turned in the doorway. And glory-be, she had taken the
letter with her! Pete gazed about the room to make sure that he was
not dreaming. No, the letter had disappeared--and but a moment ago
Doris had had it. And she still had it. "Well, she'll know I got one
or two friends, anyhow," reflected Pete as he ate his dinner. "When
she sees how Jim talks--and what he said Ma Bailey has to say to
me--mebby she'll--mebby--Doggone it! Most like she'll just hand it
back and smile and say she's mighty glad--and--but that ain't no sign
that I'm the only guy that ever got shot up, and fixed up, and turned
loose by a sure-enough angel . . . Nope! She ain't a angel--she's
real folks, like Ma Bailey and Andy and Jim. If I ain't darned careful
I'm like to find I done rid my hoss into a gopher-hole and got throwed
bad."
Meanwhile "the man downstairs" was doing some thinking himself. That
morning he had visited police headquarters and inspected Pete's gun and
belongings--noting especially the hand-carved holster and the
heavy-caliber gun, the factory number of which he jotted down in his
notebook. Incidentally he had borrowed a Luger automatic from the
miscellaneous collection of weapons taken from criminals, assured
himself that it was not loaded, and slipped it into his coat-pocket.
Later he had talked with the officials, visited the Mexican
lodging-house, where he had obtained a description of the man who had
occupied the room with Pete, and stopping at a restaurant for coffee
and doughnuts, had finally arrived at the hospital prepared to hear
what young Annersley had to say for himself.
Sheriff Jim Owen, unofficially designated as "Sunny Jim" because of an
amiable disposition, which in no way affected his official
responsibilities, was a dyed-in-the-wool, hair-cinched, range-branded,
double-fisted official, who scorned nickel-plated firearms, hard-boiled
hats, fancy drinks, and smiled his contempt for the rubber-heeled
methods of the city police. Sheriff Owen had no rubber-heeled
tendencies. He was frankness itself, both in peace and in war. It was
once said of him, by a lank humorist of Sanborn, that Jim Owen never
wasted any time palaverin' when _he_ was flirtin' with death. That he
just met you with a gun in one hand and a smile in the other, and you
could take your choice--or both, if you was wishful.
The sheriff was thinking, his hands crossed upon his rotund stomach and
his bowed legs as near crossed as they could ever be without an
operation. He was pretty well satisfied that the man upstairs, who
that pretty little nurse had said would be down in a few minutes, had
not killed Sam Brent. He had a few pertinent reasons for this
conclusion. First, Brent had been killed by a thirty-caliber,
soft-nosed bullet, which the sheriff had in his vest-pocket. Then,
from what he had been told, he judged that the man who actually killed
Brent would not have remained in plain sight in the lodging-house
window while his companion made his get-away. This act alone seemed to
indicate that of the two the man who had escaped was in the greater
danger if apprehended, and that young Annersley had generously offered
to cover his retreat so far as possible. Then, from the lodging-house
keeper's description of the other man, Jim Owen concluded that he was
either Ed Brevoort or Slim Harper, both of whom were known to have been
riding for the Olla. And the sheriff knew something of Brevoort's
record.
Incidentally Sheriff Owen also looked up Pete's record. He determined
to get Pete's story and compare it with what the newspapers said and
see how close this combined evidence came to his own theory of the
killing of Brent. He was mentally piecing together possibilities and
probabilities, and the exact evidence he had, when Pete walked into the
reception-room.
"Have a chair," said Sheriff Owen. "I got one."
"I'm Pete Annersley," said Pete. "Did you want to see me?"
"Thought I'd call and introduce myself. I'm Jim Owen to my friends.
I'm sheriff of Sanborn County to others."
"All right, Mr. Owen," said Pete, smiling in spite of himself.
"That's the idea--only make it Jim. Did you ever use one of these?"
And suddenly Sheriff Owen had a Luger automatic in his hand. Pete
wondered that a man as fat as the little sheriff could pull a gun so
quickly.
"Why--no. I ain't got no use for one of them doggone stutterin'
smoke-wagons."
"Here, too," said Owen, slipping the Luger back into his pocket.
"Never shot one of 'em in my life. Ever try one?"
"I--" Pete caught himself on the verge of saying that he had tried Ed
Brevoort's Luger once. He realized in a flash how close the sheriff
had come to trapping him. "I never took to them automatics," he
asserted lamely.
Pete had dodged the question. On the face of it this looked as though
Pete might have been trying to shield himself by disclaiming any
knowledge of that kind of weapon. But Owen knew the type of man he was
talking to--knew that he would shield a companion even more quickly
than he would shield himself.
"Sam Brent was killed by a bullet from a Luger," stated Owen.
Pete's face expressed just the faintest shade of relief, but he said
nothing.
"I got the bullet here in my pocket. Want to see it?" And before Pete
could reply, the sheriff fished out the flattened and twisted bullet
and handed it to Pete, who turned it over and over, gazing at it
curiously.
"Spreads out most as big as a forty-five," said Pete, handing it back.
"Yes--but it acts different. Travels faster--and takes more along with
it. Lot of 'em used in Texas and across the line. Ever have words
with Sam Brent?"
"No. Got along with him all right."
"Did he pay your wages reg'lar?"
"Yes."
"Ever have any trouble with a man named Steve Gary?"
"Yes, but he's--"
"I know. Used to know the man that got him. Wizard with a gun.
Meaner than dirt--"
"Hold on!" said Pete. "He was my friend."
"--to most folks," continued the rotund sheriff. "But I've heard said
he'd do anything for a man he liked. Trouble with him was he didn't
like anybody."
"Mebby he didn't," said Pete indifferently.
"Because he couldn't trust anybody. Ever eat ice-cream?"
"Who--me?"
The sheriff smiled and nodded.
"Nope. Ma Bailey made some onct, but--"
"Let's go out and get some. It's cooling and refreshing and
it's--ice-cream. Got a hat?"
"Up in my room."
"Go get it. I'll wait."
"You mean?"--and Pete hesitated.
"I don't mean anything. Heard you was going for a walk this afternoon.
Thought I'd come along. Want to get acquainted. Lonesome. Nobody to
talk to. Get your hat."
"Suppose I was to make a break--when we git outside?" said Pete.
Sheriff Owen smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "That little nurse,
the one with the gray eyes--that said you were having dinner--is she
your reg'lar nurse?"
Pete nodded.
"Well, you won't," said the sheriff.
"How's that?" queried Pete.
"I talked with her. Sensible girl. Break _her_ all up if her patient
was to make a break:--because"--and the sheriff's eyes ceased to
twinkle, although he still smiled--"because I'd have to break _you_ all
up. Hate to do it. Hate to make her feel bad."
"Oh, shucks," said Pete.
"You're right--shucks. That's what you'd look like. I pack a
forty-five--same as you. We can buy a hat--"
"I'll get it." And Pete left the room.
He could not quite understand Sheriff Owen. In fact Pete did not come
half so close to understanding him as the sheriff came to understanding
Pete. But Pete understood one thing--and that was that Jim Owen was
not an easy proposition to fool with.
"Now where do we head for?" said Owen as they stood at the foot of the
hospital steps.
"I was goin' to the bank--the Stockmen's Security."
"Good bank. You couldn't do better. Know old E.H. myself. Used to
know him better--before he got rich. No--this way. Short cut. You
got to get acquainted with your legs again, eh? Had a close call. A
little shaky?"
"I reckon I kin make it."
"Call a cab if you say the word."
"I--I figured I could walk," said Pete, biting his lips. But a few
more steps convinced him that the sheriff was taking no risk whatever
in allowing him his liberty.
"Like to see old E.H. myself," stated the sheriff. "Never rode in a
cab in my life. Let's try one."
And the sprightly sheriff of Sanborn County straightway hailed a
languorous cabby who sat dozing on the "high seat" of a coupe to which
was attached the most voluptuous-looking white horse that Pete had ever
seen. Evidently the "hospital stand" was a prosperous center.
"We want to go to the Stockmen's Security Bank," said the sheriff, as
the coupe drew up to the curb. The driver nodded.
Pete leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. Owen
glanced at him and shook his head. There was nothing vicious or brutal
in that face. It was not the face of a killer.
Pete sat up suddenly. "I was forgittin' I was broke," and he turned to
Owen.
"No. There's sixty-seven dollars and two-bits of yours over at the
station, along with your gun and a bundle of range clothes."
"I forgot that."
"Feel better?"
"Fine--when I'm settin' still."
"Well, we're here. Go right in. I'll wait."
Pete entered the bank and inquired for the president, giving the
attendant his name in lieu of the card for which he was asked. He was
shown in almost immediately, and a man somewhat of The Spider's type
assured him that he was the president and, as he spoke, handed Pete a
slip of paper such as Pete had never before seen.
"You're Peter Annersley?" queried Hodges.
"Yes. What's this here?"
"It's more money than I'd want to carry with me on the street," said
Hodges. "Have you anything that might identify you?"
"What's the idee?"
"Mr. Ewell had some money with us that he wished transferred to you, in
case anything happened to him. I guess you know what happened." Then
reflectively, "Jim was a queer one."
"You mean The Spider wanted me to have this?"
"Yes. That slip of paper represents just twenty-four thousand dollars
in currency. If you'll just endorse it--"
"But it ain't my money!" said Pete.
"You're a fool if you don't take it, young man. From what I have heard
you'll need it. It seems that Jim took a fancy to you. Said you had
played square with him--about that last deposit, I suppose. You don't
happen to have a letter with you, from him, I suppose, do you?"
"I got this,"--and Pete showed President Hodges The Spider's note,
which Hodges read and returned. "That was like Jim. He wouldn't
listen to me."
"And this was his money?" Pete was unable to realize the significance
of it all.
"Yes. Now it's yours. You're lucky! Mighty lucky! Just endorse the
draft--right here. I'll have it cashed for you."
"Write my name?"
"Yes, your full name, here."
"And I git twenty-four thousand dollars for this?"
"If you want to carry that much around with you. I'd advise you to
deposit the draft and draw against it."
"If it's mine, I reckon I'd like to jest git it in my hands onct,
anyhow. I'd like to see what that much money feels like."
Pete slowly wrote his name, thinking of The Spider and Pop Annersley as
he did so. Hodges took the draft, pressed a button, and a clerk
appeared, took the draft, and presently returned with the money in gold
and bank-notes of large denomination.
When he had gone out, Hodges turned to Pete. "What are you going to do
with it? It's none of my business--now. But Jim and I were
friends--and if I can do anything--"
"I reckon I'll put it back in--to my name," said Pete. "I sure ain't
scared to leave it with you--for The Spider he weren't."
Hodges smiled grimly, and pressed a button on his desk. "New account,"
he told the clerk.
Pete sighed heavily when the matter had been adjusted, the
identification signature slips signed, and the bank-book made out in
his name.
Hodges himself introduced Pete at the teller's window, thanked Pete
officially for patronizing the bank, and shook hands with him. "Any
time you need funds, just come in--or write to me," said Hodges.
"Good-bye, and good luck."
Pete stumbled out of the bank and down the steps to the sidewalk. He
was rich--worth twenty-four thousand dollars! But why had The Spider
left this money to him? Surely The Spider had had some other
friend--or some relative . . . ?
"Step right in," said Sheriff Owen. "You look kind of white. Feeling
shaky?"
"Some."
"We want to go to the General Hospital," said the sheriff.
Pete listened to the deliberate plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk of the white
mare's large and capable feet as the cab whirred softly along the
pavement. "I suppose you'll be takin' me over to Sanborn right soon,"
he said finally.
"Well, I expect I ought to get back to my family," said the sheriff.
"I didn't kill Sam Brent," asserted Pete.
"I never thought you did," said the sheriff, much to Pete's surprise.
"Then what's the idee of doggin' me around like I was a blame coyote?"
"Because you have been traveling in bad company, son. And some one in
that said company killed Sam Brent."
"And I got to stand for it?"
"Looks that way. I been all kinds of a fool at different times, but
I'm not fool enough to ask you who killed Sam Brent. But I advise you
to tell the judge and jury when the time comes."
"That the only way I kin square myself?"
"I don't say that. But it will help."
"Then I don't say."
"Thought you wouldn't. It's a case of circumstantial evidence. Brent
was found in that cactus forest near the station. The same night two
men rode into Sanborn and left their horses at the livery-stable.
These men took the train for El Paso, but jumped it at the crossing.
Later they were trailed to a rooming-house on Aliso Street. One of
them--and this is the queer part of it--got away after shooting his
pardner. The rubber heels in this town say these two men quarreled
about money--"
"That's about all they know. Ed and me never--"
"You don't mean Ed Brevoort, do you?"
"There's more 'n one Ed in this country."
"There sure is. Old E.H. Hodges--he's Ed; and there's Ed Smally on the
force here, and Ed Cummings, the preacher over to Sanborn. Lots of
Eds. See here, son. If you want to get out of a bad hole, the
quickest way is for you to tell a straight story. Save us both time.
Been visiting with you quite a spell."
"Reckon we're here," said Pete as the cab stopped.
"And I reckon you're glad of it. As I was saying, we been having quite
a visit--getting acquainted. Now if you haven't done anything the law
can hold you for, the more I know about what you have done the better
it will be for you. Think that over. If you can prove you didn't kill
Brent, then it's up to me to find out who did. Get a good sleep. I'll
drift round sometime to-morrow."
Back in his room Pete lay trying to grasp the full significance of the
little bank-book in his pocket. He wondered who would stop him if he
were to walk out of the hospital that evening or the next morning, and
leave town. He got up and strode nervously back and forth, fighting a
recurrent temptation to make his escape.
He happened to glance in the mirror above the washstand. "That's the
only fella that kin stop me," he told himself. And he thought of Ed
Brevoort and wondered where Brevoort was, and if he were in need of
money.
Dr. Andover, making his afternoon rounds, stepped in briskly, glanced
at Pete's flushed face, and sitting beside him on the cot, took his
pulse and temperature with that professional celerity that makes the
busy physician. "A little temperature. Been out today?"
"For a couple of hours."
Andover nodded. "Well, young man, you get right into bed."
The surgeon closed the door. Pete undressed grumblingly.
"Now turn over. I want to look at your back. M-mm! Thought so. A
little feverish. Did you walk much?"
"Nope! We took a rig. I was with the sheriff."
"I see! Excitement was a little too much for you. You'll have to go
slow for a few days."
"I'm feelin' all right," asserted Pete.
"You think you are. How's your appetite?"
"I ain't hungry."
Andover nodded. "You'd better keep off your feet to-morrow."
"Shucks, Doc! I'm sick of this here place!"
Andover smiled. "Well, just between ourselves, so am I. I've been
here eight years. By the way, how would you like to take a ride with
me, next Thursday? I expect to motor out to Sanborn."
"In that machine I seen you in the other day?"
"Yes. New car. I'd like to try her out on a good straightaway--and
there's a pretty fair road up on this end of the mesa."
"I'd sure like to go! Say, Doc, how much does one of them automobiles
cost?"
"Oh, about three thousand, without extras."
"How fast kin you go?"
"Depends on the road. My car is guaranteed to do seventy-five on the
level."
"Some stepper! You could git to Sanborn and back in a couple of hours."
"Not quite. I figure it about a four-hour trip. I'd be glad to have
you along. Friend of mine tells me there's a thoroughbred saddle-horse
there that is going to be sold at auction. I've been advertising for a
horse for my daughter. You might look him over and tell me what you
think of him."
"I reckon I know him already," said Pete.
"How's that?"
"'Cause they's no thoroughbred stock around Sanborn. If it's the one
I'm thinkin' about, it was left there by a friend of mine."
"Oh--I see! I remember, now. Sanborn is where you--er--took the train
for El Paso?"
"We left our hosses there--same as the paper said."
"H-mm! Well, I suppose the horse is to be sold for charges. Sheriff's
sale, I understand."
"Oh, you're safe in buyin' _him_ all right. And he sure is a good one."
"Well, I'll speak to the chief. I imagine he'll let you go with me."
Pete shook his head. "Nope. He wouldn't even if he had the say. But
the sheriff of Sanborn County has kind of invited me to go over there
for a spell. I guess he figured on leavin' here in a couple of days."
"He can't take you till I certify that you're able to stand the
journey," said Andover brusquely.
"Well, he's comin' to-morrow. I'm dead sick of stayin' here. Can't
you tell him I kin travel?"
"We'll see how you feel to-morrow. Hello! Here's Miss Gray. What,
six o'clock! I had no idea . . . Yes, a little temperature, Miss
Gray. Too much excitement. A little surface inflammation--nothing
serious. A good night's rest and he'll be a new man. Good-night."
Pete was glad to see Doris. Her mere presence was restful. He sighed
heavily, glanced up at her and smiled. "A little soup, Miss Gray.
It's awful excitin'. Slight surface inflammation on them boiled beets.
Nothin' serious--they ain't scorched. A good night's rest and the
cook'll be a new man tomorrow. Doc Andover is sure all right--but I
always feel like he was wearin' kid gloves and was afraid of gittin'
'em dirty, every time he comes in."
Doris was not altogether pleased by Pete's levity and her face showed
it. She did not smile, but rearranged the things on the tray in a
preoccupied manner, and asked him if there was anything else he wanted.
"Lemme see?" Pete frowned prodigiously. "Got salt and pepper and
butter and sugar; but I reckon you forgot somethin' that I'm wantin' a
whole lot."
"What is it?"
"You're forgittin' to smile."
"I read that letter from Mr. Bailey."
"I'm mighty glad you did, Miss Gray. I wanted you to know what was in
that letter. You'd sure like Ma Bailey, and Jim and Andy. Andy was my
pardner--when--afore I had that trouble with Steve Gary. No use tryin'
to step round it now. I reckon you know all about it."
"And you will be going back to them--to your friends on the ranch?"
"Well--I aim to. I got to go over to Sanborn first."
"Sanborn? Do you mean--?"
"Jest what you're thinkin', Miss Gray. I seen a spell back how you was
wonderin' that I could josh about my grub, and Doc Andover. Well, I
got in bad, and I ain't blamin' nobody--and I ain't blamin' myself--and
that's why I ain't hangin' my head about anything I done. And I ain't
kickin' because I got started on the wrong foot. _I'm_ figurin' how I
kin git started on the other foot--and keep a-goin'."
"But why should you tell me about these things? I can't help you. And
it seems terrible to think about them. If I were a man--like Dr.
Andover--"
"I reckon you're right," said Pete. "I got no business loadin' you up
with all my troubles. I'm goin' to quit it. Only you been kind o'
like a pardner--and it sure was lonesome, layin' here and thinkin'
about everything, and not sayin' a word to nobody. But I jest want you
to know that I didn't kill Sam Brent--but I sure would 'a' got him--if
somebody hadn't been a flash quicker than me, that night. Brent was
after the money we was packin', and he meant business."
"You mean that--some one killed him in self-defense?"
"That's the idee. It was him or us."
"Then why don't you tell the police that?"
"I sure aim to. But what they want to know is who the fella was that
got Brent."
"But the papers say that the other man escaped."
"Which is right."
"And you won't tell who he is?"
"Nope."
"But why not--if it means your own freedom?"
"Mebby because they wouldn't believe me anyhow."
"I don't think that is your real reason. Oh, I forgot to return your
letter. I'll bring it next time."
"I'll be goin' Thursday. Doc Andover he's goin' over to Sanborn and he
ast me to go along with him."
"You mean--to stay?"
"For a spell, anyhow. But I'm comin' back."
Doris glanced at her wrist watch and realized that it was long past the
hour for the evening meal. "I'm going out to my sister's to-morrow,
for the day. I may not see you before you leave,"
Pete sat up. "Shucks! Well, I ain't sayin' thanks for what you done
for me, Miss Gray. 'Thanks' sounds plumb starvin' poor and rattlin',
side of what I want to tell you. I'd be a'most willin' to git shot
ag'in--"
"Don't say that!" exclaimed Doris.
"I would be shakin' hands with you," said Pete. "But this here is just
'Adios,' for I'm sure comin' back."