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was the kind of life he loved and easy money was the reward of its hardships. When he had filled his pockets by the sale of other men's steers, he returned to Fort Sumner to rest and invite his soul and spend his money with a free hand at bars, gambling tables, and fandangos among companions as reckless as himself. A short life but a merry one summed up his philosophy, and when his funds ran low, he was off on another raid; living in the present, snapping his fingers at the future, like the buccaneers of old Caribbean days who, having squandered in the boozing-kens of Port Royal or Tortuga the gold looted from treasure galleons, financed another carouse by sacking Porto Bello or Maracaibo. He was, after his fashion, a Sir Henry Morgan of the purple sage, his flagship a bronco pony, the cattle ranges his Spanish Main.

Joe Grant was saved from oblivion by a bullet from Billy the Kid's six-hooter in January, 1880. Grant was from Texas, posed as a bad man, and pretended to want to join the Kid's gang. Nothing more is known about him and he would have been utterly forgotten long ago if he had not achieved the ultimate distinction of being killed by a famous desperado. Grant was in the braggadocio phase of intoxication in José Valdez's saloon when the Kid and some companions entered.

"Say, Kid," blustered the Texan, "I'll bet you I kill a man to-day before you do."

The Kid smiled off the challenge. Grant noisily urged him to accept it.

"If you think I don't mean it, I'll bet you twenty-five dollars and put up the cash."

He shoved a roll of bills across the bar into Valdez's hands, and to humour the drunken fellow the Kid covered the money.