CHAPTER I
Shooting Scrape

“The West,” said “Goober” Glendon, speaking authoritatively, “ain’t nothin’ like what she was. Now, I can remember the time when——”

“How do yuh feel toward that pot?” interrupted a cowboy, fingering his cards nervously.

“Oh, yeah,” said Goober softly. He moistened the tips of his fingers on his lips and proceeded to peek at the pips of his cards. “She’s been raised twice, eh? Costs me fifteen pesos to see what you’ve got. Le’s make her twenty to see mine.”

“I ain’t held a hand since the Jamestown flood,” sighed his young partner, Johnny Wells, tossing his five cards among the discards. “If I ever drawed one to a pair, I’d frame ’em.”

Two men called Goober’s bet.

“Three typewriters and a couple Johns,” said Goober, spreading out three queens and two jacks.

“Yo’re pretty lucky,” observed Cal Sands, foreman of the Star A outfit. “You dealt that mess, didn’t yuh?”

Goober looked keenly at Sands. “Yeah, I dealt it; why?”

“Nothin’; I just wanted to know whose deal it was next.”

Johnny Wells glanced quickly at Goober, who was calmly stacking up his chips. They were partners, these two—Johnny and Goober—partners in a strange town. They had ridden into Silver Bar late that afternoon, and decided to stay all night. Their destination was the Keno range, twenty miles north-west. They did not know any of the men at the table.

Goober Glendon was past fifty, partly bald, of medium height, but very thin. His features were sharp, deeply lined, his nose slightly hooked; thin-lipped mouth topped a square chin, which jutted a trifle. His eyes were a faded blue, almost hidden beneath bushy eyebrows.

Johnny Wells was twenty-five, range born and raised. He was of medium height, with the physique of a middle-weight fighter. His hair was inclined to auburn, wide blue eyes, nose slightly upturned above a laughing mouth. Johnny was good-looking. Both men wore battered Stetsons, faded shirts, and overalls. Goober wore the shotgun type of chaps, while Johnny affected the flaring batwing variety.

Their belts and holsters were identical, because of the fact that Goober had made them by hand. Goober carried an old, black-handled Colt, while his young companion wore a Colt with carved bone handles.

The game progressed slowly, with Goober steadily piling up chips, while Johnny was hardly able to keep even. Cal Sands drank liquor and swore at his luck. Sands was tall and dark, with snapping black eyes. His hat was black, shirt black, and he wore black trousers. There was not a touch of colour about the man. Sands was possibly thirty years of age, and had been foreman of the Star A outfit for three years.

“Did I hear you say somethin’ about goin’ over to Keno?” asked Sands, speaking to Goober.

Goober nodded slowly, studying his cards. “Yea-a-ah, we’re ridin’ thataway to-morrow. . . . Check the bet.”

“Know anybody over there?”

“No-o-o-o, I don’t reckon we do. Me and Johnny jist driftin’ in for a look around. You acquainted over there?”

“I’m from that part of the country.”

“Thasso? You know Frank C. Austin?”

“Sure.”

“So do I. Me and Frank was bunkies long time ago. We’re goin’ over and hit Frank for a job.”

Sands laughed shortly. “Do yuh think Austin is out there runnin’ a ranch?”

“Ain’t he?”

“With all the money and interests he owns?”

Goober’s faded eyes studied the face of Sands for several moments.

“I didn’t know,” he said mildly. “The last time I see Frank Austin, I reckon him and me would assay about the same amount.”

“Must have been a long time ago.”

“Somethin’ like twenty-two, twenty-three year ago.”

“Austin is one of the big financiers of the Pacific Coast now.”

“I’ll be damned! Where did he hit it rich like that?”

“Smart investments and all that.”

“Yuh got to have money to make investments.”

“Austin married money.”

“Oh,” thoughtfully. “Then he got married agin, eh?”

“Again? I didn’t know he ever was married more than once.”

Goober picked up his five cards and studied them closely. The pot was played out and a new deal started, when Sands said: “What about Austin being married before?”

“My mistake,” said Goober softly. “I was thinkin’ of another man.”

“I’ve got enough,” sighed Johnny, passing the bet. He leaned back in his chair and began rolling a cigarette.

“I’m goin’ to hit the hay pretty quick,” said Goober. “I’m so sleepy, I can’t hardly see my cards.”

“I’d hate to play yuh, when yo’re asleep,” growled Sands. He started to shove in a stack of red chips, when from out in the street came the report of two shots, spaced about two seconds apart.

“What the devil’s goin’ on out there?” snorted Sands, kicking back his chair. The men were all up from the table, crowding to the doorway.

There seemed to be a little commotion up the street a short distance, and two men were coming down the rickety sidewalk. They reached the doorway, a big, burly man, shoving a drunken young man ahead of him. The younger man was almost too drunk to walk, too drunk to argue intelligently. The big man wore a sheriff’s shield on the lapel of his old vest. He had a gun in his left hand and one in his holster, as he shoved the reeling young man into the saloon. He dropped the gun on the card-table and turned to Sands.

“Git this damn fool out of here, Sands; he just shot Jigger Slade.”

“Killed him, Nolan?”

“I think so. Self-defence. Him and Jigger been quarrellin’ all evenin’. Yuh know, they rode in together this afternoon.”

Sands grasped the drunk by the shoulders and shook him roughly. “Hal,” he gritted. “Why didja shoot Slade?”

But the young man merely looked more dazed and slumped back against the bar.

“Hell of a note!” snorted Sands. “And his father due in on that midnight train.”

“Frank Austin comin’ in to-night?” asked Sheriff Nolan.

“Yeah—mebbe the rest of the family. Wilson,” he turned quickly to the other cowboy who had been in the game, “will you take this fool kid back to Keno? Git a livery rig, if he ain’t able to ride. I’ll make it all right with yuh.”

“Sure, I’ll take him for yuh, Cal.”

“Good. C’mon, Hal, you poor fool.”

Nolan, the sheriff, went with them. It broke up the game.

Goober and Johnny went up the street to the saloon in front of which the shooting had taken place. They had laid the body out on top of an old pool-table, and a doctor was making an examination. No one seemed to know much about it, except that it was self-defence, and no one seemed greatly concerned. It seemed that Jigger Slade was a cowboy from Austin’s Star A ranch near Keno City.

They wandered back to the other saloon and found Sands and the sheriff back from the livery stable. Sands spoke confidentially to Goober.

“Yo’re an old friend of Frank Austin, yuh say?”

“Yeah.”

“Then don’t mention this to him, if yuh see him. That’s his kid. No doubt of its bein’ in self-defence. The sheriff will fix it up here; so there won’t be anythin’ said. It might make Austin feel awful bad.”

“I know,” nodded Goober.

“The kid is awful wild,” sighed Sands. “We’ve had plenty trouble with him.”

“Didja get him started out all right?”

“Oh, sure; he’s safe for the present.”

“What became of that six-gun?” asked Nolan, looking around. “I put it on that card-table, didn’t I?”

“I saw yuh put it there,” said Johnny.

“Mebbe Wilson took it,” offered Sands. “He was there by the table. He knew it was Hal’s gun.”

“Well, the damn fool!” snorted the sheriff angrily. “What right would he have to take that gun?”

“Bein’ as it was self-defence——” said Goober mildly.

“You don’t need it for evidence,” said the bartender quickly.

The sheriff growled something and walked out.

“We might as well go to bed, Johnny,” yawned Goober. “I shore need a lot of shut-eye to-night.”

“Same here.”

They went across the street and into the dingy little hotel where they had rented a room. Johnny lighted the lamp and drew down the one curtain, while Goober sat down on the creaking bed and drew the missing gun from inside his shirt. It was a forty-five Colt, double action. Goober swung out the cylinder, exposing two empty cartridges. Then he took an old envelope from his pocket, tore off a corner, and placed it to reflect the light, when he squinted through the barrel of the gun. He snorted softly and handed the gun to Johnny, who also peered down the barrel.

“Shines like a new dollar!” grunted Johnny. “This gun ain’t been shot to-night, Goober.”

“That’s what I reckoned when I saw young Austin. He was too drunk to even pull a gun. Somebody shifted them empty shells damn quick.”

Johnny laughed softly. “No wonder the sheriff wanted that gun.”

Goober nodded slowly as he drew off his boots. “This kid’s dad and me was bunkies once, Johnny. Frank was hell-winded in them days, and he was shore strong for backin’ up a friend. That’s why I stole that gun. I’d do a lot for Frank. They’ll scare the tripe out of that kid. He won’t know whether he fired a shot or not, because he was too drunk to realise anythin’.”

“How about us goin’ over to Keno City?” asked Johnny.

“Shore, we’ll go. Even if Frank Austin ain’t there, we’ll take a look at the country. But I’d like to see Frank. Married money and becomes one of the big men, eh? That’s what you ort to do, Johnny. Git yourself a rich wife.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” seriously.

“And an orphing.”

“A what?”

“Orphing. Damn, you know what a orphing is, don’tcha, Johnny? A kid what never had a father or mother.”

“Incubator baby,” nodded Johnny. “I was reading about one in a paper.”

“Yeah, that’s the kind. Pick a rich one.”

“Why an orphan?” queried Johnny.

“Saves yuh the trouble of killin’ relatives. You better undress and git in bed. Sa-a-a-ay! Ain’tcha goin’ to say yore prayers?”

“Who would I pray for?” demanded Johnny, half under the covers.

“Well,” thoughtfully, “yuh might say a few for the jasper that killed Slade.”

It was midnight when the train pulled in at Silver Bar, and the Austin family climbed down from a Pullman. They could have gone on fifteen miles to Indian Wells and taken the branch line up to Keno City, which ran a mixed train on an uncertain schedule, but Austin preferred getting off at Silver Bar and taking the stage over to Keno City. In either case they would have to stay overnight, and the poor accommodations at Silver Bar were much better than those at Indian Wells.

Cal Sands met them at the little depot and escorted them over to the little hotel. It was the first time Mrs. Austin or her daughter Betty had ever been there, and the first time Sands had ever seen either of them. Frank Austin was a portly, business-man type, well-groomed, gray-haired, smooth-shaven. His features were well-shaped, but he looked flabby, tired.

Mrs. Austin was a stately woman of more than medium height. Despite her platinum-gray hair she looked much younger than her fifty years.

Betty was like her mother in build, but a decided blonde, blue-eyed. Betty Austin was handsome—but not pretty. She shook hands with Cal Sands in the dim light of the depot lantern, and he thrilled at the firm grip of her small gloved hand.

“Yore first trip to the cow country?” he inquired.

“Yes—the first,” as her eyes travelled over his tall figure, clad in severe black.

Sands had reserved the rooms for them at the hotel. They seemed very poor to the women, but Austin hastened to assure them that they were the best to be had. When Betty had settled in her room, Austin closed the door and motioned Sands to a chair.

“What’s new, Cal?” he asked.

“Not much, since I wrote you, Austin. There was a shooting scrape here to-night, and Jigger Slade was killed.”

“Slade? The name is familiar.”

“One of my men.”

“Is that so? Who shot him?”

“Jigger was drinkin’ pretty heavy, and he got into a quarrel with a cowboy from over in the Flask River country. Jim Nolan, the sheriff, saw it. The Flask River cowboy shot to save himself; so there wasn’t any arrest.”

“My heavens, what a place!” exclaimed Mrs. Austin. “Does this happen often?”

“No,” smiled Sands. “No, ma’am; it’s kinda rare.”

“I should hope so.”

“What about Hal?” asked Austin anxiously. “Ever since your letter—well, that’s why we came down here, Sands.”

“I know,” nodded the foreman. “Well, there ain’t much more to tell. Hal’s all right. I’m not tryin’ to worry yuh about him, but I thought yuh ought to know. He won’t stay at the ranch, because I said he ought to keep away from that Diaz place. I had a long talk with him about it, and we almost had a fight. Hal’s hot-headed, and he won’t listen to reason. I told him I was goin’ to write you all about it.”

“What did he say to that?”

“Well, I’d hate to repeat it here. Anyway, he told me a few things. Yeah, he went a long ways back in my ancestry and dug up things I didn’t know about myself. Then he took his things and moved to town.”

“He needs discipline,” said Mrs. Austin severely.

“He needs something,” growled Austin. “What about that Mexican girl?”

“In what way?”

“Is she chasing after Hal?”

Sands laughed softly. “You’ve got her all wrong, Austin. Juana Diaz never chased after any man—they come to her.”

“Good-looking?”

“You answer that after you see her.”

“She must be a low creature,” said Mrs. Austin.

“To give the devil his due—she’s not,” said Sands. “Juana Diaz is as straight as a string, partly educated and as proud as a queen.”

“Are you backing Hal in this?” asked Austin quickly.

“I am not.”

“Well, we’ll take this up later,” said Austin wearily. “I suppose Hal is in Keno City now, isn’t he?”

“Should be.”

“I’ll see him to-morrow. Now, what about the rustlers, Cal?”

Sands shrugged his shoulders. “Still goin’ strong. Those seven polo mares and the black stallion——”

“You don’t mean to say they’ve been stolen?”

“They’re gone.”

“The devil they are! Well—why—uh——” Austin spluttered. “What’s the matter with La Plante?”

“He’s done about all any sheriff could do. Thinks they were taken over the border, where they can disfigure the brands enough to make ’em look like not much of anythin’, and pass ’em back as Mexican raised. You know, them Mexicans and Injuns have the queerest-lookin’ brands on earth. Not even registered.”

“That’s true. But damn it, Cal, I can’t stand for things like that. This continual drain will soon ruin the Star A. Your report was enough to knock me off my chair.”

“Yeah, it shore would.”

“Well, you go on and get some sleep. We can stay a week or so at the ranch, and perhaps we can straighten things out.”

“I hope yuh can, Austin—it shore needs it. Well, good-night, folks, I’ll hit the hay.”

Sands closed the door and went down the uncarpeted hall, his spurs rasping. From the other side of the partition, Goober Glendon took his ear away from the thin wall, and padded back to bed.

“Yo’re a regular old lady,” grunted Johnny sleepily. “It’s a wonder to me you don’t git yore ears sawed off for listenin’ thataway.”

“Uh-huh,” softly.

“Didn’t yuh ever git a poke in the snoot for bein’ nosey?”

“Shore, I have; but I’ve heard enough to pay for the poke,” Goober maintained. “Jist now I heard that Jigger Slade was killed by a waddy from Flask River, and that Frank Austin is down here to keep his kid from marryin’ a Mexican girl, and to stop rustlin’.”

“Old Mother Hubbard she went out and rubbered,” said Johnny, and began snoring softly.

Tommy Wilson and Hal Austin, meantime, were nearly over to Keno City, before Hal sobered sufficiently to understand what Wilson told him about the shooting.

“You say I shot Jigger?” Hal asked vacantly, as the buggy jolted along the stage road.

“You shore did.”

“Why?”

“How’d I know? I didn’t see it. Jim Nolan reported that you two had quarrelled.”

“Nolan? He’s the sheriff over there, ain’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“I think he’s a liar.”

“You was too drunk to know anythin’ about it. Yuh shot him twice.”

“Nolan?”

“No-o-o-o! You shot Jigger Slade.”

“Let’s turn around and go back,” snapped Austin.

“What for?”

“Well, I’ve lost my gun, for one thing, and I——”

“The sheriff took it.”

“All right. Turn around and let’s go back. I want to tell that sheriff what I think of him.”

Hal had grasped the lines, but Wilson immediately jerked them away from him. “Let them lines alone, you drunken idiot! Listen to me: Nolan says you shot in self-defence. Yo’re all cleared. Let it go at that. And yore family are due in on that train at Silver Bar to-night.”

“They are, eh?”

“Didn’t you know it?”

“Slade said he heard they were, but I didn’t believe it.”

“Well, they are, and you better sleep off yore jag and sober up before they see yuh.”

“Is Sands down there?”

“Shore is. He’s down there to meet ’em.”

“The big, black four-flusher!” snorted Hal. “He’s down there to tell the Old Man a lot of lies about me, I suppose. Well, if the Old Man wants to believe Sands—all right. I’m big enough to take care of myself.”

“Yeah, yo’re big enough,” agreed Wilson wearily.

“I sure am.”

After a few minutes, Hal resumed: “Do you really believe that I shot Slade?”

“Yuh shore did.”

“I liked Slade.”

“Go to sleep and forget it.”

“Sleep! This is sure going to put me in bad with the family. I suppose Sands will tell dad all about that shooting.”

“Yore father used to be out in this country, and he’ll understand.”

“He might, but mother won’t—not her and Betty. Are you sure Slade is dead?”

“He was dead when we left. It was lucky that the sheriff saw the shootin’.”

“I wish I knew what Slade and I quarrelled about. I don’t remember.”

“Both of yuh drunk.”

“That’s the funny part of it,” sighed Hal.

“What’s funny?”

“Slade don’t drink. The last I remember he had every pocket full of cigars. And here’s another thing—Slade could easily beat me to the draw with a gun, if he was sober and I was drunk.”

“You better sleep it off,” advised Wilson.

“All right, all right. But I’m going to find out more about this. The bartender could prove that Slade wasn’t drunk.”

CHAPTER II
A Warm Welcome

Goober Glendon met Frank Austin on the street next morning, and Austin would have passed him by without a sign of recognition. “Hyah, Frank,” said Goober, his pale eyes twinkling. Austin turned quickly to look at the lean old cowboy.

“I beg your pardon?” said Austin blankly.

“Don’t yuh remember Goober Glendon, Frank?”

“Goober Glendon? Why, I—yes, I believe I do. How are you?”

“Pretty goo-o-o-od,” drawled Goober slowly. “You ain’t tryin’ to be funny, are yuh?”

“Funny? Not at all.”

“You jist barely remember me, eh?”

“Yes, I remember you.”

“Well, that’s fine,” said Goober coldly, and walked on. Goober was hurt, and justly so. He and Frank Austin had ridden the range together, fought together, slept under the same blanket on the round-up. Now Frank Austin barely remembered him. “Money,” decided Goober bitterly. “Too much money.”

He passed Mrs. Austin and Betty a few minutes later, as he was going down to the livery stable, where he found Johnny Wells.

“Didja see Austin?” asked Johnny.

“Yeah, I seen him.”

“Ask him about jobs on his ranch?”

Goober leaned against the stall and considered Johnny’s question. Finally he sighed deeply and shook his head.

“Johnny, I’ve been hurt damn bad. Me and Austin used to be closer’n two fingers on the same hand—but he’s shore forgot all about them days.”

“Yuh mean he didn’t know yuh, Goober?”

“I told him who I was, and he—he kinda remembered me. Not a hell of a lot, but the name was kinda familiar, somehow.”

“That’s kinda funny,” said Johnny soberly.

“It ain’t funny to me.”

“You know what I mean, Goober. By the way, I seen the wife and daughter.”

“Good-lookin’ girl. Looks a lot like her brother.”

“Uh-huh,” Johnny said thoughtfully. “The old lady shore looks high and mighty. Betcha if she was hit hard she’d fall full length. Walks like she didn’t have a joint in her back. Well, Goober, what are we goin’ to do?”

“Goin’ to Keno City, f’r one thing. Might as well saddle up and hit the hills before it gits too blamed hot.”

“Suits me,” nodded Johnny. “You pay for the feed and I’ll hook on the hulls. Didja pay the bill at the hotel?”

“Paid it last night.”

The stage team was being harnessed as the pair rode out of Silver Bar, and they saw the Austin family, with Cal Sands, in front of the stage office. None of them paid any attention to the two cowboys. Johnny looked them over, but Goober rode stiffly, looking ahead, chin tilted up a little.

In earlier days Keno City was a trading post, building up slowly as the cattle business increased. It had no name until a gambler, noticing four cottonwoods in a row, said, “Keno.”

Some one facetiously added the “City,” and the place had a name. Later a branch railroad was built in from Indian Wells, fifteen miles south, and extended to Shelby, thirty miles north. Before the advent of the railroad, Keno City’s only connection with the outside world was via stage line to Silver Bar; and this stage line still existed. Silver Bar was in a different county than Keno City, which was also a county seat.

But in spite of the railroad and the county offices, Keno City never grew out of the cow-town stage. As a cowboy rhymed it: “Keno town, Main Street, Miles’ Hotel and nothin’ to eat.”

It was ten miles from Indian Wells to the Mexican border, and Indian Wells was more Mexican than English. The Star A ranch was located three miles east of Keno City.

Goober Glendon and Johnny rode into Keno City and stabled their horses. They had travelled slowly, but were glad to dismount and stretch their legs. A café sign beckoned them, and they were soon doing justice to “cowboy turkey,” otherwise known as ham and eggs, country style.

“She looks like a gone-to-seed cow-town,” observed Goober between mouthfuls. “Signs all faded, hitch-racks half et up. Must be a lot of horses fatted up on post oats around here.”

Over against the wall, sadly contemplating the remains of his meal, was a tall, sad-eyed cowboy person. He turned his sad eyes upon Goober and nodded.

“Gone t’ seed,” he said slowly. “And these yere broncs around Keno City are kin to a beaver. ’F they had a little water, they’d prob’ly build dams out of them hitch-racks.”

“Shy on water, eh?” asked Goober seriously.

“Huh! Yuh didn’t see no clouds in the sky when yuh come in, didja?”

“Not a one, pardner.”

“Uh-huh. I was jist tryin’ to estimate how far it was to water. When a rain cloud comes along we’re closer t’ water than usual.”

“Have to go deep, eh?” queried Johnny.

“Couple thousand feet below that. Strangers, ain’tcha? Yea-a-ah, yuh don’t look like anybody I’ve seen, and I know everybody. My name’s William Wallace Hill, deppity sheriff. Knowed far and wide as Smoky Hill. You stealum, we git yuh. That’s our motto. Only we don’t git nobody.”

“Who’s the sheriff over here?” asked Goober.

“Peter Quincy La Plante. Sounds fancy, don’t it? But he ain’t. When it comes to bein’ a sheriff, Pete’s jist like a pair of crutches goin’ huntin’ for a cripple.”

Smoky got up and stretched his six feet five to about six feet eight, settled back to his normal height and sighed deeply.

“Know a sheriff named Nolan?” asked Goober.

“Nolan? Over around Silver Bar? Shore. Good man, Nolan is.”

“Didja know a feller named Jigger Slade?”

“Uh-huh. Works for the Star A out here.”

“Did,” corrected Goober dryly. “Got killed in Silver Bar last night.”

“Killed? The hell he did! Who killed him?”

“I heard,” said Goober slowly, “that it was a waddy from over on the Flask River country. Self-defence—both drunk.”

“Oh, yea-a-a-ah? Imagine that! Slade, eh? Didn’t hear what the waddy’s name was, didja?”

“Nolan didn’t say,” Goober said in a noncommittal tone.

“Nolan see it?”

“Yeah.”

Smoky sat down with them until they finished, and they walked out together.

“C’mon down to the office and I’ll make yuh used to Pete La Plante,” invited Smoky. “Not that it’s anything to write home about,” he hastened to add, “but it’s cool down there.”

As they sauntered down to the office Cal Sands rode into town, and went to the stage office. Goober took a look at Sands’ sorrel horse and decided that Sands had been riding rather fast. They met Pete La Plante at the office, and Goober introduced himself and Johnny by name.

Pete La Plante was a wiry little man, with fierce moustaches and a mild gray eye. He wore a thirteen collar and a number ten boot; he chewed tobacco violently and his shirt front showed it.

“Glendon, eh?” grunted Pete. “Name’s familiar. Texas Rangers?”

“Long time ago,” grinned Goober.

“Same here,” nodded Pete, and they shook hands solemnly.

As they started to sit down Cal Sands came striding in.

“Where in hell do yuh suppose that stage is?” asked Sands.

“What are yuh talkin’ about?” replied the sheriff blankly.

“The stage from Silver Bar. It left thirty minutes ahead of me, and I never passed it on the road.”

The sheriff glanced quickly at his watch. “Jist about due now,” he said.

“You never passed it?” queried Smoky.

Sands reddened angrily. “Of all the damn fool questions! I tell yuh, I left Silver Bar thirty minutes after the stage left there, and I came all the way on the road. I never passed it—and it ain’t never arrived here.”

“And Spook Allen knows the road pretty good, too,” said Smoky. Spook Allen, he remarked, had been driving that stage for ten years.

“Be pretty hard for Spook to lose his way in that road,” nodded the sheriff seriously.

“Still, yuh never can tell what a feller will do,” said Smoky conversationally. “I ’member one time down in Texas, when me and Barney Haverty got drunk and rode all night over a mile race track. Thought we was gittin’ away from the sheriff, and come daylight we found him settin’ in the judges’ stand, waitin’ for us.”

“That’s prob’ly a lie,” observed the sheriff with a judicious air.

“But what about this missin’ stage?” demanded Sands angrily.

“But is it missin’?” queried Smoky. “Jist because you never seen it——”

“Oh, all right. But, I hope we get a sheriff with brains next election.”

“You won’t,” replied Smoky softly. “There’s only one man in this county with brains enough to be sheriff, and he won’t take the job.”

“Who is that?”

“Me.”

“You!” Sands snorted disgustedly and walked to the doorway.

“It’s funny he could come past that stage and never see it,” said the sheriff. “Must ’a’ been goin’ awful fast, ’cause that road is narrow.”

Sands started to turn his head and reply to the sheriff’s remark, but jerked back and looked down the road.

“Comin’ now,” he grunted. “What the devil? Frank Austin drivin’!”

Frank Austin was indeed driving the stage, and on the seat beside him was old Spook Allen, all doubled up in a painful position. Austin caught sight of the men in front of the sheriff’s office, and swung the team over against the old wooden sidewalk.

Austin got down quickly, breathing heavily. “Get a doctor for Allen,” he ordered snappily, as he flung open the door for his wife and daughter.

“What happened?” asked Sands.

“Held up back there about two miles. Allen went for his gun, and they shot him through the shoulder.”

Mrs. Austin was vehemently indignant. “My heavens, they took our rings and all our money! Can you imagine that? Betty, do you feel faint? I know I do.”

The slow moving sheriff was galvanized into action now. A sharp question to the injured driver, and Pete La Plante was running toward his stable, followed by Smoky Hill. Sands jumped into the seat and headed the stage toward the doctor’s office.

“How much did they hit you for?” asked Goober.

Austin turned quickly. “Two diamond rings and about a thousand dollars in cash. Fine thing to happen! If we had efficient peace officers——”

“You’d almost think yuh was livin’ in a city,” drawled Goober. “Except that they didn’t rob yuh first and kill yuh afterwards.”

“How many men?” asked Johnny.

“Two—both masked,” replied Austin. “Forced us to drive off the road down a dry wash.”

“It was really thrilling,” laughed Betty.

“I’d like to hang both of them,” growled Austin.

“I suppose you can give a good description of ’em,” said Johnny.

“Enough to fit any two men in this country.”

“One of them spoke Spanish,” offered Betty. “He called me dulce amiga. What does that mean?”

“Sweetheart,” grinned Johnny.

“Oh!” Betty was willing to retire.

Sands came back from taking Allen to the doctor, and drew up at the stage office, where a curious crowd had gathered. The sheriff and deputy rode out of town on the Silver Bar road, knowing full well that the hold-up men had had plenty of time to put many a mile between them and any possible pursuit. Sands secured a rig at the livery stable and took the Austin family away.

“Well, it was worth while to stick up that stage,” mused Goober. “Thousand dollars and a couple of diamond rings.”

“Mighty nice-lookin’ girl,” said Johnny.

“You ort to nab her,” stated Goober. “You could quit punchin’ cows for good.”

“I’ll speak to her father about it,” Johnny offered.

“Yeah! Tip it off to mamma, and she’ll prob’ly give yuh her moral support.”

“I’ll betcha she would, Goober. She looked at me jist once, and I’ve got chilblains.”

Mrs. Austin’s impression of the Star A ranch was not all flattery. Her conception of an Arizona ranch was rather vague. Betty, to be sure, murmured something about its being rather picturesque. It was all in the point of view, of course.

The ranch house was a rambling old one-storey building, part frame, part adobe, with a wide porch around two sides. A huge oak almost shaded all the building. And there were the usual stables, bunk house, sheds, and corrals, all in need of repairs. There were no flowers, no grass, no shrubbery.

Old Omaha Adams, the cook—short, fat, with a face like a greasy full moon—welcomed them with an internal groan. He needed a shave and a haircut, and the flour sack around his expansive waist was not exactly spotless. Omaha was a man’s cook, and he didn’t like women; but in a case of this kind he was obliged to make certain concessions.

Austin went down to the stable with Cal Sands. He was still smarting over that hold-up and wanted to talk about his losses.

“The only way to get ’em is to catch ’em with the goods,” declared Sands. “Them two fellers had their get-away all planned; so yuh might as well pocket yore loss, Austin.”

“I realise that, Cal,” nodded Austin disconsolately. “You know, those two diamonds were worth a lot of money. The one they took from my wife was of five carats, and Betty’s was over three.”

“Hadn’t ought to wear ’em out here,” replied Sands. “And another thing; you arranged to ship Slade’s body out to San Francisco. You didn’t need to do that. The county is supposed to handle a thing like that; and besides, Slade wasn’t workin’ here over three months, so you couldn’t feel responsible for him.”

Austin smiled wryly. “Perhaps if you knew what I know——”

“What was that?” asked Sands quickly.

“That Slade was a cattle detective, sent here by me.”

“The hell he was!”

“Sad but true, Cal. Find the man who shot him, and you’ll find one of the men who have been stealing our stock. They found out who he was.”

“Find the man who shot him, eh?” muttered Sands.

“That’s the idea.”

“I’m sure sorry this happened,” said Sands slowly. “I didn’t aim to tell yuh, but I suppose I better; you’d find it out anyway.”

“Find out what?” demanded Austin.

“That Hal killed Slade.”

“My God! No, my son didn’t do that, Cal!”

“Yeah, I’m afraid he did. Drunken quarrel. Nolan, the sheriff, saw it. We got Hal and sent him home last night before yore train came in.”

Austin turned away and walked over to the corral fence, where he leaned against the poles, his shoulders slumped wearily.

“We’ll have to keep his mother from findin’ it out,” said Sands.

Austin turned slowly, nodding painfully. “Yes, we can’t let her know. She isn’t the kind to understand. I—I’ve been through the mill; I know what it means. But it hurts like the devil, Cal. Hal’s been drinkin’ quite a lot?”

“Too much. He gets in with a gang down in Indian Wells and they raise the devil. I’ve tried to talk to him, but it’s no use.”

“I’ve got to see him,” said Austin wearily.

“He’s twenty-one,” reminded Sands. “At least that was his answer to me.”

“Yes, I know. Twenty-one; a man. I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I had let this place go to wreck. I’d be better off. I could write it all off my slate and not miss it financially. But I can’t do it. It’s the one link that connects me with the old days.”

“Hal took to the game,” said Sands. “He’s got the makings of a cowman, if he’d let liquor alone.”

“And women,” added Austin.

“Well, one woman, especially.”

“I’ll stop that. Where is Hal now?”

“We sent him back to Keno City, but he probably went on down to Indian Wells.”

“Well, we may as well make the best of it. If we can only keep the women satisfied out here long enough to give me a little time.”

“We’ll do our best,” smiled Sands.

CHAPTER III
In the Border Town

Just off the main street of Indian Wells is an old two-storey adobe, tinted by weather and long-vanished coats of whitewash. Barely decipherable are the signs painted on the front wall:

But in spite of the antiquity of the signs, there is plenty of wine, and a fried chicken; and one may dance on the hard-packed floor of the patio, where a pair of moulting parrots swear in Spanish at each other and at the three Mexican musicians, who seem for ever twanging at their guitars and mandolin.

There is always an odour of fried chicken and spilled wine; and on the rafter hang festoons of huge red peppers, adding a spicy perfume of their own.

There is, too, Rosita Diaz, refuting the belief that all Mexican women become fat and waddly after twenty-five. Rosita is nearing fifty, above average height, slender, few lines of age in her face. Her hair is sleek and black, parted in the middle, caught together in the back with a huge black comb studded with rhinestones. She always wears black. Rosita is not handsome. They say she is hard, grasping, inflexible. A good reason; she has run the Casa del Diaz for years.

It was the morning following the shooting scrape in Silver Bar, when Hal Austin came into the Casa del Diaz. His clothes were untidy, eyes bloodshot, and he needed a shave. He came through the cantina and slumped into a chair in the patio, where he threw his sombrero aside and ran his fingers through his mop of disordered blonde hair.

“Dolor de cabeza?” asked a soft voice behind him, and he turned quickly to see Juana Diaz, her lips parted in a flashing smile.

“Headache? Lordy, yes!” he said emphatically. “I’ve sure got one, Juana. Sit down.”

He drew out a chair for her and resumed his place. Juana Diaz was said to be the prettiest girl in Indian Wells, if not in the entire country. Tall and slender, like her mother, olive skin and cheeks that needed no rouge. Her features were regular, her eyes large and long-lashed, arched browed. Just now she wore a dark dress, a gay-coloured mantilla around her shoulders. Hal looked at her closely for several moments. Suddenly he leaned across the table and whispered:

“Juana, will you marry me? Right now—this morning?”

Juana drew back, her eyes wide.

“We’ll find a priest,” said Hal quickly. “I’m not a Catholic, but that’s all right. Religion don’t mean anything to me. Will you, Juana?”

“No wonder your head ache,” she said slowly.

“I’m serious, Juana. I love you and I want you—right now.”

“You got sometheeng matter weeth your head?”

“Don’t, Juana. Please, I’m serious. I’ve loved you ever since the first day I came into this place. You know that; I’ve told you many times.”

“Si, si!” Juana was serious now. “But why so sudden?”

“I’ll tell you why. You have always thought my name was Hal Gordon. I’ll admit I lied to you, Juana. My name is Hal Gordon, but the last name is Austin. My father is Frank Austin, of San Francisco. He is one of the big financial men of the Pacific Coast. He owns the Star A cattle outfit.

“I don’t know what Cal Sands said about you, but I’m sure he lied to dad about both of us, and dad, mother, and my sister came to Silver Bar last night. They are at the ranch now, and dad is probably looking for me.”

“To keep you from marrying me, eh?” Juana was on her feet instantly, eyes ablaze.

“That’s their viewpoint,” laughed Hal. “Sit down, Juana. Dad is a good scout. Mother is—well, blue blood means a lot to her. Don’t you see, things have been exaggerated. Marry me to-day, and everything will be all right.”

In his excitement Hal had raised his voice, even forgetting where he was. Now the soft voice of Rosita Diaz broke in on the conversation, and Hal turned to see her standing behind him. Hal flushed quickly. For some reason he had always feared Rosita Diaz just a little.

“Why did you say your name was Gordon?” she asked slowly.

“I don’t know,” confessed Hal. “It—it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Rosita ignored the question. “Your father is Frank Austin, the millionaire?”

Hal laughed shortly. “I don’t suppose he’s got that much.”

“And he came down here to stop you from seeing Juana?” Rosita demanded.

“I’m not sure, but I think that is his reason.”

“Because Juana is not good enough for you, eh?”

“Wait a minute,” begged Hal. “Dad never saw Juana. Some one has lied to him.”

Rosita’s eyes were like black ice now, and she laughed harshly. “No one has lied,” she said. “Your father does not want you to marry a Mexican. Perhaps he is right. Quién sabe?”

“I’m sorry,” said Hal wearily. “But I do want to marry Juana.”

“You are only one of many. I want to see Juana happy. If she wants to marry you—very well; but your father must consent.”

“I am of age, Mrs. Diaz.”

“Years have nothing to do with it.”

Some one was coming through the cantina, and Rosita moved over toward the entrance to meet Porfiro Mendez, a huge, overdressed Mexican, followed by Miguel and Ricardo Gonzales, cousins of Mendez. Mendez was picturesque in his gaudy attire, and no doubt a handsome man from the Mexican point of view. His head was huge, features regular, with sweeping black moustaches. He was possibly fifty years of age.

Miguel and Ricardo were of different types, their heads barely reaching to Mendez’s shoulders. No doubt their mother had been Indian, as the Indian blood showed plainly in these two men. They were younger than Mendez, evil-looking, loose-lipped, drab of attire alongside Mendez.

“Ho, ho, ho!” roared Mendez jovially. “’Eere ees my seester-in-law all ready to serve polla frita and mucho vino to ’ungry men. ’Ullo, Rosita. Shake ’ands weeth Mike and Deek.”

“Buenos dias,” said Mike and Dick in chorus.

“Thees boys don’t spik Englis’ ver’ good,” grinned Mendez.

“Mike don’t spik Englis’ wort’ damn,” said Dick expansively.

“You go from hell,” grunted Mike. “I’m spik twice times worse den you.”

“You see?” said Mendez. “Pretty good, eh? Bimeby thees boys spik so good Englis’ he’s forget español. Seet down.”

Rosita walked imperiously out to the kitchen to give the order, while Mendez looked expansively around. His eyes lighted at sight of Juana, but he scowled heavily at Hal.

“Buenos dias, dulce amiga,” he smiled at Juana.

“Hello, Uncle Porfiro,” replied Juana, little interested.

“Onkle!” snorted Mike.

“Tonto! You fool!” exploded Mendez angrily, and Mike subsided. Not for nothing was Porfiro Mendez known as “Lobo,” the Wolf, down across the border, where he owned and controlled the little town of Piñon.

Juana turned her back on Mendez and he scowled blackly, watching her and Hal from the corner of his eye. For a long time Mendez had coveted Juana, and he possibly had an understanding—with himself—that she was to marry him. He had given no thought to the vast difference in their ages.

Mendez shifted uneasily in his chair as Hal and Juana talked softly. Finally he got up and walked into the cantina room, where he found Rosita unpacking some bottles of wine.

“Who is this young man with Juana?” he asked in Spanish.

Rosita stood up and brushed off a bottle with a cloth. “Why do you ask?” she replied.

“Is this young man in love with Juana?”

“Of what interest is that to you, Porfiro?”

“Enough. I mean to marry Juana.”

Rosita stared at him in amazement for several moments.

“You are going to marry Juana?”

“That is true.”

She laughed in his face, as she placed the bottle on a table.

“You? Old enough to be her father. Porfiro, do not be a fool. Knowing you as I do, even were you of an age, I would never agree to a marriage. You see,” Rosita leaned in closer, lowering her voice, “I have a memory—a memory of my sister, little Juanita.”

Mendez shifted his eyes nervously. It was something he did not care to discuss.

“You drove her away,” said Rosita softly. “You took another woman. Juanita came here to live with me—died here in my arms. No, Porfiro.”

“Does Juana know all this?” he asked hoarsely.

“Why would I tell it to a child? Go back and eat—but forget Juana.”

Mendez nodded slowly. “Who is the gringo?” he asked.

“His name is Austin.”

“Austin? Austin of the Star A cattle company?”

“His son.”

Mendez lifted his right hand and tugged at his moustaches, eyes almost closed. He glanced back at the doorway to the patio, where a parrot was shrieking a meaningless jargon of Spanish words. His eyes came back to Rosita’s face. “Madre de Dios,” he snorted, and swaggered back to the patio, as Juana and Hal were coming out.

Rosita went to the kitchen with her bottles. Hal held out his hand to Juana.

“You weel come back?” she asked simply.

“And keep coming back,” he smiled. “Let somebody try to stop me.”

“Thees cheeken ees cook’ to the taste of a quin,” declared Mike.

“Quin?” queried the greasy Dick. “What ees ‘quin,’ Mike?”

Mike choked over a chicken bone, dug deeply with a forefinger and got it out, but not until his cheeks were wet with tears from the choking.

“A quin,” he said hoarsely, “ees—a quin ees—you dam-fool, a quin is w’at takes a jack.”

“A seester from a keeng?”

“Sure.”

“Mm-m-m-m-m. She’s like good cook cheeken, eh?”

“Sure.”

“Shut up,” growled Mendez. “I’m want theenk.”

“Sure,” grunted Dick, and then with inspiration. “You say w’at you wan’ theenk, and I’m ’elp you, Porfiro.”

“I don’ want no brain from you!” snapped Mendez.

“All right—onkle,” grinned Mike.

“Some day,” said Mendez severely, “I’m cut off your damn head and run you out of Mejico. Who are you? Ladron! ’Orse t’ief! And you try mak’ fun from Lobo Mendez.”

Mike subsided. He realised that he had overstepped a little. Mendez swelled out his cheeks and grew very red in the face, as he glowered at his low-bred cousins who would dare poke fun at him.

“W’en you spik to me—spik español,” he ordered. “You spik Englis’ like damn Basque sheepherder.”

They both nodded, but did not agree with Mendez. Cut-throats and horse-thieves they were, but proud of their English-speaking ability. Still, it was not policy to anger their patron cousin further; so they confined themselves to finishing the chicken and wine, while Lobo Mendez picked his teeth with the point of a pocket-knife and appeared to be deep in thought.

CHAPTER IV
“Shot in the Back!”

The holdup and robbery of the Austin family caused considerable comment in Keno City. The sheriff and deputy found the place where the stage had been taken off the road and down a dry wash. There were plenty of tracks in the sand; but it was deep sand which gave no idea of shape or size. The men had evidently kept their horses near there and rode away immediately.

Spook Allen had foolishly reached for his gun and received a bullet through his right shoulder, which did not break any bones, but incapacitated him for further driving for a while.

The descriptions of the two men were vague, as usual. “Look for two men with masks on,” said Smoky, “and if they’ve got two diamond rings between ’em—they’re the men we want. What this office needs is more detective ability and less cross-country ridin’.”

Frank Austin and Cal Sands came to Keno City, searching for Hal, but Hal was not there. No one had seen him since they saw him leave for Silver Bar with Jigger Slade. Slade had told Smoky that he had been fired by Sands and was leaving the country. Austin asked Sands if this was true, and Sands said it was.

“Slade didn’t want to take orders,” he told Austin. “Of course, I didn’t know you hired him. Neither of yuh ever told me anythin’ about it.”

“That’s true,” replied Austin. “But Slade didn’t want anybody to know who he was. I hired him to come here and try to discover where my stock was going. I didn’t know he was going to get a job on the ranch. In fact, I’ve only heard from him twice, and he mailed his letters in Silver Bar. I wrote him twice at Silver Bar, sending the letters to general delivery, and it may be that he either came over there to mail a letter to me or perhaps he knew I was coming in last night.”

“He didn’t trust anybody very much, did he?” smiled Sands.

“No, I guess he didn’t,” sighed Austin. “I must find out about—if there was anybody dependent on him. Under the circumstances, I feel duty bound to see that his death does not work a hardship on anybody.”

“You can’t blame Hal so much,” replied Sands. “The sheriff saw it, and he said it was a case of self-defence.”

“I understand that, but at the same time—well, I’ll do what I can. I hope it doesn’t become known, because if his mother ever finds it out——”

“That’s right,” agreed Sands. “She wouldn’t understand.”

Sands tried to dissuade Austin from going down to Indian Wells, but the big man insisted that he must find Hal and have a talk with him. It was a long, hot ride, and they arrived in Indian Wells at noon.

“We might as well eat at the Casa del Diaz,” suggested Sands. “If Hal is down here we’ll find him there. Anyway, it’ll give you a chance to see that Mexican girl. Their fried chicken and red wine is mighty good, and that old patio is the one cool place in Indian Wells.”

“All right, Cal.”

They tied their horses on the main street and walked back to the old adobe.

“I haven’t been in Indian Wells for years,” said Austin, “but it hasn’t changed a bit. Used to be a mighty tough place in the old days.”

“Yeah, and it’s still a tough place,” stated Sands. “More Mexican revolutions cooked up here than there is in Mexico. A killin’ don’t mean much down here. A knife between the ribs—and the buzzards pickin’ yore bones down along a dry-wash.”

Sands opened the front door and they stepped into the old cantina. There was only the Mexican cook, carrying some boxes into the kitchen. She spoke to them in Spanish, as Sands led the way out into the cool patio. The three Mexican musicians were lounging in their chairs, smoking cigarettes, but they reached for their instruments, at sight of the two patrons.

Sands threw his sombrero aside and sat down at a table. Austin drew back a chair, started to sit down, but straightened up slowly. Just outside a doorway, which opened into the patio, stood Rosita Diaz, looking at him with her wide, dark eyes. Austin was gripping the back of that chair, his knuckles turning white under the strain. Sands was paying no attention, being more intent on one of the guitar players, who had broken a string.

For several moments Rosita stared at Frank Austin, and then with a slow turn of her head, she walked back through the doorway. Austin did not move, but his hand slowly relaxed on the chair, as the door closed behind her. He blinked his eyes, as though recovering from his trance, turned and sank wearily into his chair.

“Kind of a nice old place,” said Sands, but Austin did not reply, and the three-piece orchestra broke into the well-known strains of “La Paloma.”

Sands turned and looked at Austin. “What’s the matter?” he asked quickly. Austin shook his head, his lips shut tightly.

“Too much heat,” grunted Sands. “I told yuh it was too damn hot to ride down here to-day. He-e-ey!” he yelled, hammering on the table.

“Don’t,” said Austin shakily. “I’m all right, Cal.”

“Well, I’d like to have some water or some wine. You need a bracer, Frank.”

Juana came in answer to Sands’s call, and smiled at the foreman. Austin looked at her rather curiously.

“This is Mr. Austin, Juana,” said Sands. “Will you bring us some water, and tell the cook to fry us some chicken. Yuh might bring us a bottle of wine at the same time.”

Juana nodded and went to the kitchen. Austin turned to Sands. “Is that the girl, Cal?”

“Yeah, that’s Juana Diaz. Pretty, ain’t she?”

Austin reserved his audible opinion, and Sands thought he was not interested.

“Does her mother run this place?” he asked.

“Sure. Rosita has run it for years. She’s a queer one, Frank. Proud as the devil, though. She sure thinks a lot of Juana. I’ve known Rosita for three years, and she still calls me Señor Sands. Nobody ever gets well acquainted with Rosita—that is, white folks. That damn Lobo Mendez is her brother-in-law.”

Juana came back with a pitcher of water, bottle of wine, and glasses. Austin watched her slim brown fingers, as she uncorked the bottle and poured out the wine. She looked up at him with a smile. “You are Hal’s papa?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Austin quickly. “Do you know where he is now?”

“Quién sabe?” softly. “He was ’ere w’ile ago, but I think he go back to Keno City.”

“Was he down here all night?” asked Sands.

Juana shrugged her shoulders. “How would I know? He came ’ere this morning.”

“Probably didn’t go to bed all night,” said Sands. “You need somethin’ a lot stronger than that wine, Frank. How about a little tequila?”

Austin shook his head. “This is all right.”

Juana placed the bottle on the table and walked back toward the cantina.

Sands watched her disappear and turned to Austin.

“I suppose a white man ought to stick with his own colour, but I’ve wondered what kind of a wife a Mex girl would make for a white man. Most of ’em get fatter than the devil after they’re about twenty-five. But look at Rosita. She’s between forty and fifty, I’d bet; and look at her.”

Austin was more interested in his wine, it seemed.

“Mighty few white girls as pretty as Juana,” continued Sands. Austin looked up at him.

“Why don’t you marry her, Cal?”

Sands laughed shortly. “One big reason is—she probably wouldn’t marry me.”

“Cal, you marry her and I’ll make you my partner in the Star A.”

Sands looked curiously at Austin, trying to fathom his reason for such a generous offer. “Sounds damn good,” he said softly. “Might work out. I wonder how much she thinks of Hal?”

“That doesn’t make any difference. Let me talk to Hal. He’s through being wild, Cal—wild on my money.”

“I think that killin’ last night will tame him plenty,” said Sands.

They went back to the main street, where they saw Hal and Lobo Mendez come from a cantina together. They talked for a few moments, and Lobo went on. Hal was about to enter the cantina again, when he saw his father and Sands.

“Hello, dad,” he grinned, ignoring Sands entirely. They shook hands, eyeing each other seriously.

“We’ve had quite a time finding you,” said his father evenly. “Is this any way to welcome your mother, father and sister?”

“No one told me you were coming. Slade came to Keno City and asked me if I didn’t want to ride over to Silver Bar. He said there was some one coming in on the night train; some one he wanted to see. He told me that Sands had fired him, and that he wasn’t coming back to the ranch. Sands, did you tell him that dad was coming in?”

“I did not,” denied Sands. “Omaha knew it, and Omaha might have told him. I know I didn’t.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” stated Austin. “I want to talk with you alone, Hal.”

“I’ll meet you at the horses,” said Sands, and entered the cantina.

“I’m taking you back to San Francisco,” said Austin.

“Changing your views, eh?” smiled Hal.

“After the reports I’ve had on you—yes.”

“Reports from Cal Sands,” said Hal angrily. “I was supposed to be tied to his belt, but the string busted. Isn’t that the whole trouble?”

“You’ve been drinking and raising hell in general.”

“I’ve been drinking—yes. I don’t know exactly what Sands wrote you, but I suppose he told you I was running around with a Mexican girl.”

“Wasn’t that true?”

“I took her to a dance in Keno City, and was the envy of every man there—especially Sands. He’s a big, black four-flusher—and I told him so. If I was running the Star A, I’d boot him off the ranch so damn quick——”

“That’s enough, Hal. You get your horse and ride back to the ranch with us.”

“Yes, I’ll do that; I want to see mother and Betty. But I’ll not stay there as long as Sands is foreman. No, dad, it can’t be done. I’m not big enough to whip him with my hands, but old man Colt evened things——”

“Drop that talk, Hal! I should think one killing would——”

“Sands told you that, did he?” interrupted Hal. “I thought he would.”

“It isn’t any secret, is it?”

“From the way they railroaded me out of Silver Bar, I thought it was. Well, all right. Cal Sands wrote you a lot of lies, and that’s why you came. Now that you’re here, I know why; so this morning I asked Juana to marry me to-day.”

“You’re not!” snapped Austin.

“I know it. But that doesn’t alter the fact that I wanted to marry her.”

“I’m glad I came when I did,” grunted Austin, mopping off his brow with a handkerchief. “You’re going back to the ranch with us, and from there you go to San Francisco.”

“Suppose I decide to stay here?”

“I guess you won’t do that.”

“But just suppose I did?”

“Don’t talk like a fool, Hal.”

“I’m of age, you know.”

“Granted,” came coldly from the older man. “You just try staying here. I’ll cut off your income right now, and from this time on, you’re not of my family. Forty a month as a cow-puncher wouldn’t appeal much, eh? I doubt if you could get that much. No, I guess you’ll go back to San Francisco and behave yourself.”

“I’ll go back to the ranch with you,” said Hal stubbornly, “but I’ll make no promises for the future.”

Austin’s jaw set tightly, as they started back up the street. Then: “You might like to know that Slade was a detective, hired by me.”

“Was he? Who else knew it?”

“Not a soul.”

Hal laughed shortly, but made no further comments. They met Sands at the horses, and rode out the North road towards Keno City. Austin could see that his son disliked Sands as greatly as he had indicated; so he rode between them and talked to Sands. They were discussing some of the former work at the ranch, and Slade’s name was mentioned. Sands glanced at Hal, and the youngster flared up instantly.

“It’s too bad dad came when he did. You would have had a chance to write a swell report on that shooting, Sands—judging from the other reports you’ve turned in against me.”

“Stop it, Hal,” warned his father.

“They needed a victim,” said Hal bitterly, “so they picked on me, because I was too drunk to know what was going on. Slade and I never quarrelled; and as far as shooting him in self-defence is concerned—rot. Slade wasn’t drunk and I can——”

“Wait a minute,” cautioned Sands. “This has gone far enough, Hal. I’m sorry this had to come up again, Frank; but I suppose I’ve got to tell the truth. If it wasn’t that Hal is your boy he’d be in jail right now. Nolan made it out a case of self-defence, but he told me later that Slade never even had a chance to draw his gun. Nolan had to square it with the bartender in that saloon, because the bartender knew what really happened.”

“Cal, is that true?” asked Austin.

“It’s a dirty lie!” snapped Hal.

“It’s the truth,” swore Sands. “Slade was shot in the back.”

“In the back? My God!” Austin’s face went white, as he swerved his horse in closer to Hal. “Hal, you didn’t shoot him in the back!”

“Do you believe that?” asked Hal.

“What can I believe? The sheriff——”

Hal drew up his horse and turned the animal around.

“Some day I’m going to kill you, Sands,” said Hal Austin. “Watch out for me, when we meet again.” To his father he said only, “You can explain all this to mother and Betty. You believe it is the truth, and maybe they’ll believe it, too. Adios.”

He spurred his horse and went galloping back down the road toward Indian Wells, leaving his father staring after him.

CHAPTER V
A Strange Tangle

“Hal’s gone back to the border!” said Austin stupidly to the foreman.

“The damn fool,” Sands muttered.

Austin shut his jaws tightly, his eyes blinking rapidly. Then: “Sands, are you sure Sheriff Nolan told the truth—that my Hal——”

“I think he did, Frank.”

“That’s awful! I can’t tell his mother. She isn’t the kind you can tell things like that. What on earth am I to do?” he demanded helplessly.

“Let him alone and he’ll come to his senses.”

“I suppose that is best; but it’s a hell of a remedy in a case like this. Maybe he’ll marry that Mexican girl. Cal, I’ve got to do something to get him out of this country.”

“No, I don’t believe Juana will marry him.”

“Damn your beliefs; I’ve got to know.”

“I’m no mind-reader,” said Sands testily. “You’ve got to take a chance. If I’m any judge, Rosita Diaz ain’t goin’ to let Juana marry anybody—not yet.”

“I hope not,” Austin said fervently. “Well, I suppose we may as well go on. No use going back to Indian Wells.”

“Not a bit,” agreed Sands, and they went on toward Keno City. A short distance farther on they met Goober Glendon and Johnny Wells. The old cowboy and his young companion merely nodded, as they rode past.

“Know either of them fellers?” asked Sands.

Austin nodded shortly. “The old one. He used to be down in this country a long time ago. His name is Glendon. Was with the Texas Rangers at one time, and later he was with the Cattle Association, I believe, and made a hit as a range detective.”

“Still with the Association?” queried Sands casually.

“I don’t think so.”

“You might hire him to investigate.”

“No,” replied Austin emphatically. “Once is enough.”

Goober Glendon snorted audibly after they had passed, and Johnny grinned as he said, “You and Austin must ’a’ been pretty thick in the old days.”

“He’s shore crazy about me now,” Goober admitted grimly. “From what Smoky says, Austin is worried about rustlers adoptin’ his stock. Let ’em! I hope some old cow kicks him flat on his back in a manure pile.”

Johnny laughed softly. “Yore curses are pretty severe, Goober.”

They rode on to Indian Wells. Goober had been there years before, and he failed to see where the place had advanced any. They saw Hal on the street, and both of them recognised him, although Hal had been too drunk to remember seeing them in Silver Bar.

Porfiro Mendez and his two cousins came swaggering down the narrow street, and Goober looked Mendez over thoughtfully. He had known “Lobo” Mendez years before, and recognised him, in spite of the fact that Mendez had grown from a wiry young vaquero, cow-puncher, to a hulking figure resplendent in gaudy clothes and silver.

Mendez looked keenly at the old cowboy for several moments, and his big mouth widened to a smile.

“Madre de Dios!” he exclaimed. “Señor Glendon, I’m bet your hat!”

“Hello there, Porfiro,” laughed Goober. “You old son-of-a-gun!”

“Sonn off a gonn, eh?” laughed Mendez, as they shook hands. “Where you been all thees long time?”

“North most of the time: Oregon, Washington, Montana, Idaho.”

“You leeve down ’ere now?”

“Nope; jist passin’ through, kinda lookin’ for a job.”

“You not weeth Texas Ranger no more?”

“Not for a long time.”

“Hm-m-m-m-m.”

“How is the world treatin’ you?” asked Goober.

“Muy bien. I’m beeg man in my own city. You come down see Piñon.”

“The old town of Piñon, eh?”

“Ver’ old, ver’ nice. I am alcalde there.”

“Justice, eh?” Goober laughed. “Featherin’ yore own nest, Porfiro?”

“W’at you mean?”

“I guess you ain’t runnin’ no Sunday school.”

Possibly Mendez did not know what Sunday school meant, but he evaded the issue anyway. “Thees like ol’ time,” he said. “To-day I’m see Frank Austin; now I’m see you.”

“You remember Frank?”

“Sure; he’s a relation from me.”

“Yea-a-a-ah?”

“Sure. I’m marry one seester, he marry other seester.”

“That’s right. By golly, I forgot that. Your wife still alive?”

“I’m don’ know; she vamos long time ago.”

“Uh-huh? Mendez, I want yuh to meet Johnny Wells, my partner.”

They shook hands, and Mendez turned to Mike and Dick Gonzales.

“Thees is my cousin, both of them, Miguel and Ricardo Gonzales. Bot’ good man, but not brain enough to pour sand from rat-’ole. Shake ’ands.”

That formality over, they went on. Goober laughed softly, as he and Johnny went on up the street.

“Fine trio of smugglers,” said Goober. “Mendez, bein’ alcalde of Piñon, it gives him a chance to run everythin’ from drugs to diamonds across the line.”

“What was that stuff about him and Austin bein’ related?” asked Johnny.

“They married twin sisters—Mexican girls. Austin was still livin’ with his Mexican wife when I left here, but it’s a cinch he’s made a change since then. I remember seein’ Austin’s wife, but I never knew what became of the one Mendez married. How about foldin’ ourselves around a little chuck?”

Goober stopped a prosperous-looking Mexican and asked him where there was a good place to eat.

“You like cheeken, ver’ nice fry—good vino?”

“Shore,” grinned Johnny.

The Mexican pointed out the Casa del Diaz, and they thanked him.

They went over and entered the place. Hal was sitting alone at a table in the patio, looking rather downcast.

As they sat down Rosita came in to take their order. Goober looked sharply at her, his brow furrowed in thought. She recognised him, and her eyes widened. Goober had not changed since the days when Rosita Diaz was a belle of Indian Wells. He started to speak her name, but hesitated. He had only known her as Mrs. Austin.

“Bring us some chicken and some wine,” he said softly, and she turned away.

Juana came in through an outside entrance to the patio, carrying a bunch of roses, and Hal got quickly to his feet.

“I thought you go back to Keno City,” she said.

“I came back to see you, Juana,” he replied. “I want to see you alone.”

She whispered something to him and he nodded quickly. She went on and entered another door. Goober looked at Johnny, a queer expression in his eyes. “What’s eatin’ yuh?” asked Johnny softly.

Goober shook his head. Rosita came back with a bottle of wine. Hal got up and entered the cantina.

“It’s been a long time since I seen you,” said Goober softly.

He looked up at Rosita. Except for her luminous eyes, there was no change in expression.

“Many years, Señor Glendon,” she murmured. “Years I would forget.”

“Wasn’t that Frank Austin’s son?”

“Yes.”

Goober’s glass was too full, and he spilled some of it on the table.

“Frank Austin was your good friend,” said Rosita softly, a catch in her voice.

“Not now. He has forgotten old friends. Money makes some men forget.”

“Forget everything,” breathed Rosita. “But that is past.”

“You married again?”

“No, señor.”

“That girl—he called her Juana?”

Rosita’s lips shut tightly for a moment and her eyes turned toward the doorway to the cantina. “She is mine,” she said firmly.

“Sure,” said Goober slowly. “It is none of my business, señora.”

“Gracias. I will send the chicken.”

She went away, leaving them alone in the patio, with the scolding parrots.

“What’s it all about?” asked Johnny.

Goober shook his head sadly. “Tough deal, it looks like. Puttin’ two and two together, it looks as though Hal Austin was in love with his half-sister, and none of ’em have nerve enough to tell him.”

“Why in hell don’t her mother tell him?”

“I dunno, Johnny. Mebbe she’s got an axe to grind with Frank Austin.”

“Why don’t Austin tell his kid?”

“Ashamed—mebbe. I dunno. Anyway, it’s none of our business, pardner.”

“And that girl shore is a peach, Goober.”

“Buy a cue in the game—she’s half white.”

“Está la vida!” screamed a parrot. “Por Dios! Está la vida!”

“‘By God! This is the life,’” translated Goober. “You’re right, Polly.”

“Smart parrot,” grinned Johnny. “Here comes the chicken.”

CHAPTER VI
Cal Sands, Fixer

“Well, I ain’t goin’ to jist walk off the job and tell her to do her own damn cookin’—but I might as well.”

Omaha sat on the chip pile, his old pipe sagging from one side of his mouth, and considered Tony Riecho and Dave Elkinson, two of the Star A cowboys.

“Yo’re a fair cook,” said Tony seriously.

“Fair—hell! I’m as good as they ever git. That there Austin woman don’t know food, she don’t. She says to me, ‘Some cavyar for dinner, some thin soup, and I want the filly meyon rare.’ Git that, will yuh, yuh damn dogie-dodgers? I dunno what she wants, but yuh say ‘yes’m’ when she talks, y’betcha. Then I sneaks around to Miss Betty, and I asks her what in hell is cavyar. Know what she said? ’Course yuh don’t. She said it was feesh aigs.”

“You lyin’, Omaha?” said Dave.

“Cross m’ heart, and I hope to die. Feesh aigs! In this country?”

“I ain’t never seen no fish eggs,” said Tony.

“I didn’t even know they laid eggs. What kinda fish?”

“What’s filly meyon?” asked Dave. “That’s a new one on me.”

“Sounds like horse meat,” replied Omaha disgustedly. “Filly!”

“I’ve et horse meat,” said Tony. “It ain’t bad. But the question is—what are yuh goin’ to cook for ’em?”

“Thin soup,” sighed Omaha. “Imagine thin soup. I’ll jist take some of my regular soup and strain her through a flour sack.”

“You better go find a fish nest,” advised Dave. “I’ll ask Cal about butcherin’ that Wagonrod filly he bought last month. She’s lame, anyway.”

“Well, I ain’t huntin’ no feesh nests,” declared Omaha, gathering up some wood. “I dunno what in hell them wimmin came here for, anyway. The girl is all right. What’s an abysmal brute?”

“Somethin’ to eat?” asked Dave.

“I dunno. Miss Betty said I was a abysmal brute for treatin’ the steak the way I done.”

“You do kinda leather ’em up,” suggested Tony maliciously. “Where’d Cal and Austin go this mornin’?”

“Over to Silver Bar,” Omaha told him. “The old lady is gettin’ sore as hell. She wants to see Hal, and they don’t seem to be able to find the danged fool. And she’s still sore about bein’ robbed. She says one of them diamonds was worth five thousand dollars.”

“Which one?” asked Dave.

“How’d I know? I never got ’em. Well, I s’pose I better git back on the job. If you fellers happen to run on to a feesh nest——”

“Well, we might,” grinned Tony. “You better ask Cal about that filly meat.”

Mrs. Austin was both discouraged and disgusted. It was not what she had expected. The Star A ranch house had always been the abode of men. It lacked any refinements. The beds were hard, the food coarse. Betty did not complain, but, of course, Betty was young, romantic. Perhaps the cowboys were handsome, in a rough way, but Mrs. Austin was long past the romantic age.

“Unwashed creatures,” she called them. “Why, they do not even talk our language.”

“Picturesque,” sighed Betty, seated on the front steps, and trying to make friends with a pup, half wolf, half collie.

“Ignorant to the point of dumbness,” declared her mother.

“Cal Sands is not ignorant, mother.”

“Sinister, rather.”

The pup ran away and squatted behind a bush, which was too small to hide it.

“Typical of the country,” said Mrs. Austin, meaning the pup. “Do you notice his fear of us? And yet he has no fear of the cowboys. I suppose it is because they are all primitive.”

Betty nodded slowly. “Primitive. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to see one of the cowboys wearing one of our diamonds strung around his neck to keep away evil.”

“He would be mightily disappointed in the efficacy of the charm,” replied Mrs. Austin, with unconscious humour.

Betty laughed softly. “The value would probably not appeal to him. Perhaps he imagines he has a silver ring and a flat brilliant. Square-cut diamonds and platinum are seldom seen in this country.”

Mrs. Austin sighed deeply. “Betty, what has gone wrong with your father?”

“Wrong?”

“Yes—wrong. And why doesn’t he find Hal. It is ridiculous to think they cannot find him. He says it is because Hal did not know we were coming out here. But I haven’t lived all these years with Frank Austin without knowing him. He is worried sick over something. If they do not find Hal in a very short time, I shall search for him myself.”

“If dad and Cal Sands are unable to find him——” began Betty.

“But are they?” interrupted Mrs. Austin quickly. “They have gone back to Silver Bar to-day, presumably looking for Hal. Yesterday they were down at Indian Wells. To-morrow—where?”

“I do not believe there is anything to worry about,” said Betty. “Hal is a man—not a little boy.”

“Well, something is decidedly wrong,” sighed Mrs. Austin. “This wretched place gets on my nerves. That ignorant cook! Oh, I could just scream at sight of his food. Beef cooked to a cinder, soapy-looking boiled potatoes, saffron biscuits.”

“And,” added Betty solemnly, “he admitted to me that he is the best chef in Arizona.”

“Chef! That man is an incendiary. He doesn’t even hold a good thought for raw food. But he is on a level with the rest of the place. No electricity, no gas, no plumbing. Baths are unknown. Look at your father. Must have a bath and a shave every day—now look at him.”

“Reverting to form,” smiled Betty. “You must remember, dad got his start in this environment.”

“Did he?” snorted Mrs. Austin, who considered snorting the height of vulgarity.

“Didn’t he, mother?”

“He came from San Francisco with a few head of cattle—and met me. If you mean, he came from down here—yes.”

“I never heard about that,” said Betty interestedly.

“I never considered it worth discussing.”

“And you married daddy right then? How romantic! But didn’t he ever come back down here?”

“After we were married he came down here for a few days to settle up his affairs.”

“Daddy was a cowboy, was he not?”

“Yes, I suppose he was.”

“And you have always been happy and prosperous.”

“Just remember, young lady, we did not live happy and prosperous on what he could earn as a cowboy.”

“Possibly not. But has he owned this ranch all those years?”

“Not at all. He purchased this ranch about ten years ago—against my wishes. He had an idea of retiring to a cattle ranch after a few years.”

“Does he still feel that way about it, mother?”

“I suppose he does. But there will only be one retirement in the Austin family, I can assure you of that. I wouldn’t live down here for all the cattle in Arizona.”

“No,” said Betty thoughtfully. “I was wondering who a certain cowboy might be. We met him down in Silver Bar—on the street. And again we saw him in Keno City, after the robbery. He was with an older cowboy. He had blue eyes and rather auburn hair—nice-looking cowboy.”

“I did not notice him, because I am not interested in cowboys.”

“He was nice-looking.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Austin said severely, “he is the one who took our rings.”

“He didn’t look like a criminal,” Betty protested.

“Very few criminals do—until after they are caught,” dryly. “However, we are not going to be here much longer. If your father feels that he must stay, all well and good—but I am not going to stay. I shall talk with him to-night, and in any case, we shall go to Silver Bar or Indian Wells not later than to-morrow evening, and take the first train back to San Francisco.”

“Without seeing Hal?”

“It doesn’t appear that Hal cares to see us.”

“But surely, mother, he doesn’t know we are here. Hal isn’t that kind.”

“Pshaw! Everybody knows we are down here.”

“I am afraid not, mother. There are no newspapers to spread the news, and I do not believe the name of Austin means as much here as it does at home.”

“Well,” the bearer of that name stated resignedly, “that doesn’t affect the situation in the least. We go home to-morrow.”

If Mrs. Austin was suffering from contact with the country, Frank Austin was also suffering, but in a different way. The knowledge that Hal had deliberately murdered a man was the greatest shock he had ever felt. It had been a bitter dose to swallow, but once down he blinked dazedly and wondered how it could be handled to ensure complete concealment of the crime.

It was true that Nolan, the sheriff, because of Austin’s prominence, had declared it a case of self-defence. But the coroner would know that the man had been shot in the back, and unless this man had been fixed by Nolan, there was always danger of a leak.

Austin asked Sands if he was personally acquainted with the coroner.

“Yeah, I know him,” admitted the foreman. “Name’s Edwards. I don’t know him very well, of course. He’s the doctor of Silver Bar.”

“And,” said Austin miserably, “it is seldom that a man, shooting in self-defence, shoots a man in the back.”

“That’s true,” nodded Sands. “I never thought of that.”

“What about the inquest?” demanded Austin.

“That’s right. We’ll go over there to-morrow.”

“I was just wondering,” said Austin slowly, “if a little money would help to—you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” replied Sands quickly, “it might help a hell of a lot. Nolan is all right, I think, but I can’t swear for the coroner.”

“How much?”

Sands laughed shortly. “Well, I don’t want anybody to hold yuh up on a deal like this, but—you make the amount to suit yourself.”

“Will you help me handle the deal?” the moneyed man pleaded. “You know them better than I do, Cal. They probably wouldn’t want cheques. I can draw on the bank. Yes, I think it would be better than paying by cheque.”

“Cash always looks better than a cheque—and yuh can’t trace a dollar.”

“That’s it! We’ve got to be cautious, Cal.”

So here they were, in Silver Bar, ostensibly looking for Hal. Austin drew five thousand dollars, split it in two parts, and gave it to Sands to buy silence from the sheriff and coroner. Sands came back and reported that all was well, but Austin sat out the coroner’s inquest, perspiring at every pore during the testimony, especially when the doctor took the stand and testified that the deceased had died from the effect of two revolver bullets. But the doctor did not mention whether they had been fired from behind or in front.

The sheriff testified that the killer, known as Windy, a cowboy from the Flask River country, had fired in self-defence, became panicky and headed out of the country. The sheriff, having seen the shooting, did not bother to go after the man.

Austin left the inquest, shaky but relieved. There had been no mention of Hal Austin, for which Frank Austin was duly thankful, and for which he thanked Cal Sands profusely.

“That’s all right,” said the foreman. “The boys send their thanks for the money, and yuh don’t need to worry about anythin’.”

There had been two strangers at the inquest—Goober Glendon and Johnny Wells. No one seemed to notice them at the back of the room, until the inquest was over, when Sands and Sheriff Nolan saw them. Nolan’s jaw hardened as he realised that Goober and Johnny had been in that saloon on the night of the shooting, and consequently had heard him say it was Hal Austin who did the shooting.

Nolan didn’t know what these two might do; so he hunted around until he found Sands, and drew him aside, mentioning the presence of Goober and Johnny.

“I saw ’em,” said Sands. “Glendon is an old friend of Austin; so that’s all right.”

“What are they doin’ here, anyway, and who are they?”

“That’s all I know about ’em. Glendon used to be a Texas Ranger, and he was afterward an Association detective. Kinda funny, at that. They’re here the night of the shootin’. Next day there’s a stage robbery, and these two were in Keno City when I got over there. Yesterday Austin and me met them down near Indian Wells—and here they are in Silver Bar.”

“Yeah,” nodded Nolan, “and them two was in the saloon after the shootin’, when I left Hal’s gun on the card-table. Well, I’ve never found that gun. I asked Wilson about it, but he never took it.”

“They’re both wearin’ guns,” Sands observed.

“Yeah, but did they take Hal’s gun?”

“Hm-m-m-m-m. They might bear watchin’, Nolan.”

“Where’s Hal?”

“Indian Wells, I reckon. Well, we’ve got to start home.”

“How long are the Austin family goin’ to stay with yuh?” the sheriff of Silver Bar asked.

“Quién sabe? Not long—if the old man ever has an understandin’ with Hal. If I don’t see yuh before, I’ll be over to start the Austin family on their back trail.”

Goober and Johnny were rather amused at the inquest, although they knew the sheriff would protect Hal in the matter. “That sheriff is a born liar, Johnny,” said Goober, when they were back on the street again. “He put the deadwood on some poor puncher that ain’t ever been there, prob’ly. But it’s all right. I’ll betcha Austin knowed that Hal should have been present, even if it was self-defence. I could see the sweat on Austin’s nose all durin’ the meetin’.”

They went up the street, sauntering slowly, and were passing the front of a bank, when some one called Goober’s name. They stepped back and entered the bank, where a gray-haired man stepped from behind a grilled gate and thrust out his hand to Goober.

“Ed Cates!” exclaimed the old cowboy. “By golly, how are yuh, Ed?”

“Goober Glendon, you old rascal!”

They stood and grinned at each other for several moments.

“Banker, eh?” grunted Goober.

“Yeah,” boomed the gray-haired Cates. “I’ve been here for years, Goober. I’ve often wondered what ever became of you.”

“Well, I’ll be darned!” Goober’s eyes swept the little banking establishment. “Still, you allus was good at figgers, Ed. You ain’t changed much. Hair’s a little grayer than formerly, thasall.”

“Same with you, pardner.”

“Well, mebbe I shrunk a little. Kinda weather-beaten, Ed. Oh, yeah, I forgot. Meet m’ pardner, Ed. His name is Johnny Wells. Johnny, this is one of my old friends, Ed Cates.”

They smiled and shook hands.

“A different greetin’ than Frank Austin gave yuh,” observed Johnny.

“Ain’t it?” Goober chuckled.

“What about Austin?” queried the banker, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh, he jist got kinda high-toned,” grinned Goober. “Didn’t remember me—much.”

“I know. Frank is pretty rich these days, Goober. He was in to see me this morning.”

“Yeah? Renewin’ old acquaintances, Ed?”

“Well, I wouldn’t quite put it that way. He cashed a cheque for five thousand dollars. Chicken-feed for him, I suppose.”

“No brains,” grinned Goober. “A couple enterprisin’ boys knocked him off for a thousand dollars, and took a couple diamond rings from the wimmin. And now he lines his pockets with more dinero for ’em to get.”

“I heard about that robbery. By the way, that was his wife and daughter, wasn’t it? I saw them that morning. Nothing like that, when we knew him, eh, Goober? Wasn’t he married to a Mexican woman?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you happen to come back to this country, Goober?”

“Lookin’ around. Me and Johnny teamed up down in Yuma. Johnny was thinkin’ of joinin’ the army to see the world. I asked him if he had seen all of this country, and he said he hadn’t. I says, me and you better git used to Arizony before we start takin’ in too much territory; so here we are.”

A man came in to see Cates; a cattleman, possibly forty years of age, black hair, black eyes, a crooked nose. His lower lip sagged from a white scar, which bisected the lip and curled down across his chin. Cates called him Terrill. He looked sharply at Goober and their eyes met. Terrill’s features did not change, but his eyes widened quickly, snapped almost shut, like a man who faces a flashlight.

“I’ll see yuh again, Ed,” said Goober calmly.

“Be sure and do that, Goober. Glad to have met you, Wells.”

“Thank yuh,” said Johnny, and they walked out, going down to the front of the hotel.

“You knowed that feller Terrill,” said Johnny.

“Knowed him?” Goober snorted. “Of course I knowed him. Notice that lip? I done that with the barrel of a six-gun, the dirty sidewinder. Terrill, hell! His name is Bart Walker. Now, what’s he doin’ up here, wearin’ the name of Terrill?”

“Killer?” asked Johnny.

“Shore ’nough. Had his own gang down near Laredo—four of ’em. I had ’em dead to rights one time. Walker played dead, until my gun was empty, and then tried to take me alive. I’d been hit twice, but I had three of his men down and one gone out through a winder, when up gits Walker, coverin’ me with his gun; so I flung mine at him and knocked him cold. I seen him down, with the blood spurtin’ from his lip and chin, and then I went out. But Walker got away, prob’ly thinkin’ I was dead.”

“Wanted to take yuh alive an’ kickin’, did he?”

“Yeah, sacrificed his own men for a chance to cut off my ears, I s’pose. I’d shore like to know what he’s doin’ around here.”

“He’ll probably pull out now that you recognised him.”

“Not that malo hombre.”

Discreet questioning at one of the bars brought out the fact that Terrill owned the 7 Bar 7 cattle outfit, located about five miles northwest of Silver Bar, near the road to Keno City. He had owned it about three years, and hired two cowboys. It seemed that Terrill was well liked and minded his own business.

“That’s all right,” Goober told Johnny. “If he’s on the square, I’d be the last one to annoy him. Ain’t none of us old-timers but what lives in glass houses. But jussasame, I keep my eye peeled on Bart Walker.”

“Is he wanted anywhere, Goober?”

“No, I don’t reckon he is. Men ain’t usually ‘wanted’ down in that country. They either git out or git planted. Walker got out. Of course, I dunno where he’s been since that time, except the three years he’s been around here.”

Seated at the window of the hotel lobby, they saw Terrill cross the street from the bank, mount his horse, and ride out of town.

CHAPTER VII
Trouble Roosts at the Star A

Austin’s heart was lighter as he and Sands rode back to Keno City. As far as the death of Slade was concerned, everything was all right. Sands had handled things well, and Austin was grateful to the tall foreman.

“If we can only fix things to get Hal back home, everything will be fine,” he told Sands. “I made you a proposition yesterday, if you remember. I said I’d give you half interest in the Star A, if you married Juana Diaz. Now, I’ll go further than that, Cal. To-morrow we’ll go to a lawyer in Keno City and draw up partnership papers. After to-morrow, you own half of the Star A. No, don’t say a word,” when Sands started to speak. “I don’t want any thanks. I need you there. I can’t take any active part in the handling of the ranch. Things are in pretty much of a mess—rustling and all that.”

“That’s a pretty big gift,” said Sands slowly.

“All right. Stop all this rustling. It’s your stock as well as mine now.”

“I’ve done all I could.”

“Oh, I know that. I’m not accusing you of negligence, Cal. But I wish Slade had lived long enough to tell me what he knew.”

“Did he know anything?”

“Perhaps.”

They found that Hal had not come back to Keno City; so they went on to the ranch. Austin had hoped against hope that Hal had relented and gone to the ranch to see his mother and sister, but Hal had not been there.

“Either Hal does not know we are in this country, or something terrible has happened to him,” declared Mrs. Austin, after her husband had told her they could not find Hal.

“I don’t think he knows we are here,” lied Austin wearily. If he could only induce Hal to go back to San Francisco and let them find him there, it would clear up everything.

“I shall search for him myself to-morrow,” declared Mrs. Austin. “I shall enlist the assistance of the sheriff’s office, and if he is in this——”

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” said Austin quickly. “I—I’ll find him. As soon as he finds we are here he will come to the ranch.”

“Why did he leave here in the first place? You do not know? I do.”

“You do?”

“He quarrelled with Cal Sands over that Mexican girl. Sands tried to prevent Hal from seeing her, because he is in love with her himself.”

“Ridiculous! Sands doesn’t love that girl.”

“I suppose he told you he doesn’t.”

“Who told you all this?”

“That,” said Mrs. Austin firmly, “is a confidential report. Hal refused to take orders from Sands.”

“Sands didn’t want Hal to throw himself away on a Mexican girl. He felt responsible to me.”

“Very considerate, I’m sure. But have you seen this Mexican girl?”

Austin hesitated, but decided to admit that he had seen Juana. “Yes. I have seen her.”

“Pretty?” demanded his wife.

Austin shrugged his shoulders.

“Pretty enough, I suppose—if you care for that type of beauty.”

“So Omaha, the cook, said.”

“You got all your information from Omaha, eh?”

“He answered a few questions,” Mrs. Austin snapped.

“I believe Sands would be interested in knowing that the cook is a gossip.”

“I know I was,” she smiled. “He told me many things, and among them was the fact that Slade, the man who was killed in Silver Bar, was a detective sent here by you.”

“How in hell did Omaha know that?” blurted Austin. “That is something I must find out.”

“I asked him how he knew, and he said Slade talked in his sleep.”

“Talked in his sleep!”

“Some folks do, Frank. You have.”

He jumped. “I have? What did I say?”

“Many times. Last night, for instance, you were babbling about somebody shooting their half-sister in the back. Not an intelligent statement, but it shows what might happen.”

Austin mopped his brow with a handkerchief. This was serious. Betty came in and Austin sighed with relief.

“No news of Hal?” queried Betty, and her father shook his head.

“Is he hiding from us, dad?”

“Why, no, of course not. He just don’t know we are here. He hasn’t been in Silver Bar nor Keno City lately.”

“Then he must be in Indian Wells. Mother, did you tell dad what we had decided to do?”

“No, I had not mentioned it yet.”

“What was that?” the official head of the household inquired anxiously.

“This place is unbearable,” said Mrs. Austin. “The food is terrible and the sleeping accommodations vile. To-morrow we are going to Indian Wells and find Hal. After a talk with him, we are taking a night train for home. That is my decision.”

“But, my dear, that doesn’t give me any time——”

“You may stay, if you care to be uncomfortable; we do not.”

“But I wish you would not be too hasty. You—you may not find Hal in Indian Wells, and you would surely not want to go home without seeing him. Perhaps he will be in Keno City or Silver Bar to-morrow. I’ll try and find him. I’m sure he will come here as soon as he knows.”

“We shall go to Indian Wells to-morrow, Frank.”

“But suppose you do not find him? Would you go back without seeing him?”

“Certainly. Hal would understand.”

“Well, perhaps it would be better if you and Betty went back,” Austin said lamely.

“You do? Hm-m-m-m-m. I’m not so sure of that.”

“Do as you please, my dear,” her husband offered wearily. “But I must stay a while. There are certain things that must be cleared up.”

Austin left the house and met Sands at the stable. He told Sands that old Omaha had told Mrs. Austin a lot of things, among them the fact that Slade was a cattle detective.

“How in hell did Omaha know this?” snorted Sands. “I didn’t.”

“He said Slade talked in his sleep.”

“I wonder why Omaha didn’t tell me?”

“I don’t know. He also told her that the reason Hal wouldn’t stay here was because you and Hal quarrelled over that Mexican girl.”

Sands flushed angrily. He knew this to be the truth, but was eager to deny it.

“That blasted old liar! I’ll tie a can on him so tight that he won’t get another job in this county. Anyway, he can’t cook.”

“Do as you please about that. Mrs. Austin has made up her mind to go to Indian Wells to-morrow, find Hal if possible, and leave for home from there.”

“She and Betty?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it might be a good idea, at that, Frank.”

“Best in the world—if only they don’t find Hal. That fool kid might talk too much, thinking they already know what he does. If we can only find Hal and keep him under cover until they leave.”

“They’d probably find him at the Casa del Diaz.”

“We can’t let them do that, Cal. I’ve got to keep my wife——”

Austin broke off the sentence quickly. He had not meant to say what was in his mind. Sands was looking at him curiously. Austin mopped his flushed face with a handkerchief.

“Suppose she did go to the Casa del Diaz?” queried Sands.

Austin sat down wearily on an old box, staring ahead. Should he tell Sands, he wondered? Sands was to be his partner in the Star A. He trusted Sands. Why not tell him the truth? Possibly Sands suspected something already.

“You recognised Rosita Diaz,” Sands was saying, as Austin looked up.

“She was my wife years ago,” said Austin thickly. “Juana is my daughter. Now, do you understand?”

“For God’s sake!” exclaimed Sands.

“God hasn’t anything to do with it, Cal; it’s a devil’s mixture. My own son is in love with my own daughter, and I—I don’t dare—— I left Rosita. There was no divorce. Rosita is a Catholic. I knew there was a baby coming, but I went away. I’d been to San Francisco with some cattle, and I met Laura—my present wife. I haven’t any excuse, except that—— Oh, what’s the use?”

“Would Rosita let Juana marry Hal?” asked Sands slowly.

“Who knows? I left her destitute. Perhaps this might be her way of getting revenge.”

“But her own daughter!”

“Is she—does she seem to be doing anything to prevent it?”

“No, that’s true as hell—she ain’t.”

“And I can’t tell Laura that this Mexican woman was my wife—that Juana is my daughter. Don’t you see what it would mean?”

“It shore is a mess,” agreed Sands thoughtfully. “We’ve got to find a way out. I never thought it was that bad.”

“I didn’t know, until I saw Rosita. I just didn’t want Hal to marry a Mexican girl. If we can only get Laura and Betty out of the country! That’s what we’ve got to do—get ’em away.”

Omaha was hammering on the old circular saw which hung on the back porch in lieu of a dinner bell, calling them to supper.

“Hammer it plenty,” thought Sands. “To-morrow you go down the road.” But aloud he said: “I’m takin’ a ride to-night, Frank, and I may not be back until mornin’. I’ll stop in Keno City and have Charley Bell fix up them papers, if you’ll give me the dope on what yuh want in ’em.”

“All right, I’ll do that. Are you going to Indian Wells, Cal?”

“I think I will. I want to get a line on Hal and see if I can’t figure out some way to get him out of Indian Wells for a while.”

“Good; I’ll leave it to you. Let’s go and eat.”

CHAPTER VIII
Night Ambush

Goober and Johnny spent the day around Silver Bar. They heard that Austin was paying the expenses of shipping Slade’s body back to San Francisco. The big sheriff was pleasant enough when they talked with him at his office, and Nolan admitted that the truth had been handled carefully at the inquest.

“No use puttin’ the deadwood on Austin’s kid,” he told them, “even if it was self-defence. Least said, soonest mended. That’s the way I look at it. The kid was drunk. You both seen him.”

“Shore,” nodded Goober.

“You used to know Austin, didn’t yuh?”

“Used to,” grinned Goober. “He used to know me, too. Where does the Star A do their shipping from?”

“Indian Wells.”

“Much stock shipped from here?”

“Oh, quite a little.”

Goober stretched and filled his pipe.

“I heard quite a lot about the Star A losin’ cattle and horses, when we was over in Keno City.”

“I’ve heard the same thing,” nodded the sheriff. “Don’t seem possible. They’d have to drive ’em north, south, or over here, and you’ve got to have the local officer look ’em over before they’re shipped. No chance to ship other brands, unless yuh can damn sure prove ownership.”

“I know that,” drawled Goober. “How about Mexico?”

“Horses, yeah, yuh might sell a few down there. No market for cows. They sell most of their surplus across the line. Sands said they was losin’ a few head—enough to worry Austin. But you sabe all this stuff because you used to work for the Association, I hear.”

“Yeah, I did,” replied Goober, wondering who had told Nolan. “But I got out of that kinda work. Too dangerous for the money yuh git. Might as well be a sheriff or a deputy.”

Nolan laughed. “Oh, this ain’t bad. I don’t hire any deputy. Used to have one. Pretty hard to get reliable men at the money this county can pay; so I handle the job alone.”

“And don’t git anythin’ extra for doin’ it,” said Goober.

“No, that’s plenty true. Are you fellers lookin’ for work around here?”

“Well, that was our original idea,” grinned Goober. “We heard about Frank Austin ownin’ a big outfit over here; so we comes over to have a look. I tells Johnny that Austin bein’ an old blanket-mate of mine, we’d shore get a couple of jobs. I meets Frank here the day he showed up, and you’d think I was all broke out with smallpox.”

Nolan laughed heartily. “Forgot his old friend, eh? That’s what money does to some folks. You didn’t strike Sands for a job, didja?”

“Hell, no! After that turn-down, me and Johnny decided to kinda look the places over. Not bein’ exactly broke, we could afford to loaf a while.”

“What about that 7 Bar 7 outfit?” asked Johnny.

“Terrill’s? Oh, that’s just a little outfit. He hires a couple men, and they’ve been with him a long time. Dug Blewett and Heinie Shafer, couple old cow trailers. Terrill’s ranch is kinda northwest of here. His road forks off the main road to Keno City, about a mile and a half from here.”

Nolan ate supper with them and loafed around with them until after nine o’clock. Things were quiet, only one or two games running.

“Might as well go down to the office and talk,” the sheriff suggested at last; so they did. Nolan was interested in Goober’s experiences along the border, but the old cowboy was rather reticent about his personal prowess.

“You was with the Association quite a while, wasn’t yuh?” asked Nolan.

“Three years.”

“Man on that job can make a lot of enemies in three years.”

“That’s right, and that’s why I quit. Gittin’ old, I reckon. Young feller goes hell-bent into things, takin’ a lot of chances, but when yuh git older yore life seems worth more than a lot of fool happenings. I’ve stopped a plenty lead. The Walker gang tagged me for the cemetery, but I missed the sexton by an inch. Bart Walker was a queer sort of a jasper. He had a good chance to finish me off cold, but he wanted me alive. Played dead, until my gun was empty, and then raised up to take me alive. I knocked him cold with my six-gun, and then faded out m’self. I reckon Walker thought I was dead, because he got away, and I dunno what became of him.”

Both Goober and Johnny watched Nolan’s expression, but the big sheriff either did not know Terrill as Walker, or he had a perfect poker face. They talked for an hour, and Goober decided it was time to go to bed. They told Nolan good-night and walked up the narrow sidewalk toward the hotel.

Then it came, like a flash of lightning out of a clear sky. A streak of fire, the smashing report of a heavy revolver; Goober’s grunt from the shock of the bullet, and his fall against Johnny Wells. Some one in a dark alley had fired, from not over fifteen feet away, and now was running down the alley, boots thumping on the hard ground.

Goober slithered down Johnny’s right leg, and Johnny was shooting down the alley as fast as he could pull the trigger, cursing bitterly. The sheriff was running up the street, and men were coming from the saloon across the way. Johnny’s gun was empty, the hammer clicking on an empty shell.

“He got Goober,” said Johnny. “Damn him, he got Goober!”

“Who got him?” panted the sheriff.

“Man in the alley, the dirty bushwhacker.”

“Didja hit him, do yuh think?” asked one of the men.

“No,” groaned Johnny. “Shootin’ at the sound, thasall. Git a doctor, will yuh? Goober, are yuh bad hurt?”

“Pack him into my office,” ordered the sheriff.

They stretched Goober on the floor and one of the men ran to get a doctor. Goober’s breathing could be heard out on the street, like a man suffering from pneumonia.

“Well, where did he get his?” wondered Johnny. “I can’t find no blood.”

“Look at that belt-buckle,” said a cowboy.

Goober was wearing an old army belt-buckle of solid metal, a big, oblong buckle, and to all appearances it had been hit hard. Johnny unbuckled the belt, tore open Goober’s clothes to disclose a purple bruise a little larger than the buckle.

“The luck of the Irish!” snorted Johnny in quick reaction.

Goober groaned, took a couple of deep breaths, and opened his eyes, squinting painfully. “Where’d he hit me?” he asked.

“Right in the belt-buckle,” grinned his relieved partner. “I’ve always wondered why yuh wore a monstrosity like that, but now I know.”

Goober grunted painfully and sat up. “I feel like I’d been kicked by a horse,” he told them. “My gosh, I’m shore tender.” He got to his feet and was feeling himself over as the doctor came bustling in.

“Where’s the wounded man?” he asked.

“He don’t need a doctor,” said Johnny. “Send a jeweller.”

Nolan explained what had happened, and the doctor examined the bruise on Goober’s body.

“That’s all right. Be sore for a few days. Must have knocked the breath out of you.”

“I reckon so,” grinned Goober. “I thought the town fell down on me.”

There was no use asking questions as to who had tried to kill the old cowboy. Goober carried his belt in his hand, and they went to the hotel. They went up to their room, down the rear steps, and around to the livery stables, where they saddled their horses.

“Got a hunch?” asked Johnny.

“Terrill-Walker, mebbyso. We’ll go out and see what it looks like around his place. He’s the only man I know of around here that would try to bush me thataway. Anyway, I crave a word or two with Mr. Terrill.”

Not even the stableman saw them leave. He was probably at a saloon or restaurant. Their only knowledge of the way to the 7 Bar 7 was that the road forked off the Keno City road a mile and a half from Silver Bar. They circled wide of the town and picked up the road in the moonlight. It was an easy matter to find the road to the 7 Bar 7, and they were about a mile from the forks when they heard a horse clattering over a hard piece of road behind them. Swinging quickly off the road and into the brush, they saw a rider sweep past them. Even in the moonlight there was no chance to identify him.

“Ten to one it’s Terrill,” grunted Goober, as they went back to the road.

They rode slowly, after covering what seemed to be the approximate distance to the 7 Bar 7, and they saw the light from a window. Another quarter of a mile and they could see the huddle of buildings which constituted the ranch.

They dismounted in the shadow of the big stable, which screened their horses from any one on the road, and proceeded Indian-like to investigate. The ranch house was a one-storey affair, and behind it was a small bunk house and a row of long sheds. A series of corrals linked the stable with these sheds. There was a light in the bunk house, and the window was apparently uncurtained, but a curtained window, through which the light shone dimly, precluded any chance to see inside the ranch house.

They cautiously circled the ranch house and came around to the bunk house, where they looked through a rear window. Two cowboys were at a little table, playing cribbage by a smoky oil lamp. They were a hard-looking pair, these two 7 Bar 7 cowboys.

“Know either of ’em?” whispered Johnny.

“No,” replied Goober, as they moved away.

A horseman was approaching the ranch house, and the two men dropped in the heavy shadow. They heard the man climb the porch steps and his knock on the door. Goober sneaked in close to the window to see if he could hear what was being said in there, but the voices were not audible. It was too dark to distinguish the colour of the horse, and Goober did not want to take a chance on going close to the animal. He went back to Johnny, and they squatted in the shadow of the stable.

“If Terrill bushed you, and if Terrill was the man who passed us he got out of town without knowin’ whether he killed yuh or not,” said Johnny. “My guess is that this other rider came out to tell him what happened.”

“Yo’re learnin’, son,” said Goober seriously. “After while you’ll be able to look in a horse’s mouth and tell how old he is.”

“Well, what’s yore wrong idea of it all, Goober?”

“The fact that he missed killin’ me wouldn’t cause a man to ride all the way out here to tell him what a rotten shot he is.”

“Why not? Terrill knows you recognised him as Walker. And he might like awful well to know whether yo’re alive or dead. It might make a lot of difference in what he does next.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Mebbe you’ve hit it. I shore wish I knew who this last feller is, Johnny. Walker is a human lobo, but I can’t tag anybody else. Them two punchers of his shore look forked, but yuh can’t go by looks.”

“How does yore stummick feel?”

“Sore as a boil. Hurts me to bend over. But I ought to declare a Thanksgivin’ Day and build me an idol out of that old buckle. I’ve worn that old thing for years, and I never knew why. But I know now.”

“Fate,” said Johnny. “If I——”

The thud of a shot prevented Johnny from finishing his statement. Just one shot, and it sounded as though it came from the ranch house. Suddenly the door was flung open and a man darted quickly down the steps. The horse snorted with fright, but the man was into the saddle and running his horse back to the main road. The bunk house door was open and the two 7 Bar 7 hands came running toward the house.

“Sure it was a shot!” one of the 7 Bar 7 cowboys panted to the other as they ran up the steps to the open door of the ranch house. One stopped at the doorway an instant, looked about, then followed his partner inside.

In less than twenty seconds Goober and Johnny saw the pair come back out on the porch, their voices plainly audible to the two men against the stable.

“Of course he’s dead; shot through the heart. Who in hell shot him, do yuh suppose?”

“He came back alone.”

“I know it. This is a fine mess. Well, I’ll go to town and notify the sheriff.”

“We’ll both go to town and notify the sheriff. Yuh don’t catch me stayin’ alone with any damn dead man, I’ll tell yuh that.”

“All right; shut the door.”

Goober and Johnny flattened in the shadow as the two men came down past them and entered the stable. A few minutes later the pair had saddled and were racing their horses to Silver Bar.

As soon as they were gone, Goober and Johnny went up to the ranch house. Terrill was sprawled in the middle of the floor, clad in underclothes, overalls and moccasins. His belt and gun were on a table near him. Goober drew the gun from the holster and looked at the cylinder. One empty shell indicated that a single shot had been fired.

There was no question that the one shot had been plenty, and it had been fired so close that the nap on Terrill’s undershirt had been scorched. There was nothing to be gained from a search of the place; so they went back to their horses and travelled about three miles down the road, where they slipped down into the brush and waited for the men to bring the sheriff.

“They’d like to soak us for that job,” said Goober. “It was a clear case of murder, and if anybody around Silver Bar knew that me and Terrill were old enemies, they shore might make trouble for us.”

It was nearly an hour later when several men came along the road, and Goober said he recognised Nolan’s voice. So they went back to Silver Bar, stabled their horses, without seeing the stableman, and sneaked up the rear stairs to bed.

CHAPTER IX
Mexican Blackmail

Porfiro Mendez had never been known as a moralist. Naturalists agree that a wolf has no morals; and Porfiro had not been nicknamed Lobo without a reason. Lobo wanted Juana. The difference in their ages meant nothing to him. If it meant the slitting of a few more throats—what of it? Did he not have Miguel and Ricardo, both experts in that line, to do as he ordered? And if they were not enough he could easily recruit more men in Piñon.

Mendez thought these things out, as he rode north to Indian Wells, flanked on either side by those two henchmen. Mendez wore his red silk shirt, beaded leather vest with the turquoise buttons, his biggest hat, which cost a fortune in Mexico City; his tightest leather pants, with the silver conchas; and his finest boots. The pants were a little tight around the waist, but this discrepancy was covered by a silken sash, the fringed ends hanging to his knee.

He smiled at two of the Border Patrol and touched the brim of his big hat. They did not stop him. Ricardo and Miguel smiled straight ahead. If they had been alone, perhaps the patrol would have stopped them, because Ricardo and Miguel were ignorant enough to carry contraband openly. But not when they were with Lobo Mendez.

“You see,” said Ricardo triumphantly. “Weeth Lobo we are safe.”

“From which are we safe?” asked Miguel.

“Spik español,” growled Lobo. “And never make fun from Border Patrol. Some day these men put you in jail for the rest of my damn life.”

“That ees right,” agreed Ricardo. “You spik español, Mike. Me and Lobo spik plenty Englis’ for ever’-t’ing.”

Lobo snorted. “You are worse from heem, Ricardo. Shut off!”

They rode to Indian Wells and loafed around the town. There were plenty of cantinas where tequila might be purchased cheaply, an occasional cock fight to wager a few pesos on, and always plenty of games of chance—in which the patron took all the chances (if, indeed, he had any chance at all).

But Lobo Mendez did not linger with the common herd. He went to the Casa del Diaz, planted himself in a patio chair and ordered mucho vino. He became expansive, but there was only the Indian woman who waited on him, and those insufferable parrots grating: “Está la vida—por Dios” at each other, as they performed acrobatics on their perches.

Finally he caught sight of Rosita through a doorway, and called to her. She came out reluctantly, and he motioned her to a chair.

“I have much to talk about,” he told her in Spanish. “In fact, we have much to talk about, Rosita.”

“Talk,” smiled Rosita. “That is one thing you do well, Porfiro.”

“Yes, I am a great talker.”

“And do little.”

“I do much, when there is much to do. Where is Juana?”

Rosita shrugged her shoulders. “She is not far away.”

“And the gringo—Austin?”

“What of him?” Rosita looked keenly at Mendez.

Mendez did not answer that question, but eyed her cunningly.

“I have been thinking. You will not allow this gringo to wed Juana?”

“Why not?”

“Madre de Dios! She is your daughter, and this gringo is her half-brother.”

“Well?” Rosita’s features hardened. “What is that to you, Porfiro?”

“This,” lowering his voice. “You hate Señor Austin. This is your threat. He knows his son loves your daughter, he is afraid to acknowledge her, and he will pay well to have this stopped. To you he would pay much American gold to have Juana far away from his son. Am I not right?”

Rosita’s eyes flashed dangerously. “This is not your affair.”

Mendez laughed harshly. “I am no fool. I know all these things. What would Señor Austin pay me for silence, eh? You do not like that? All right; let us play this game together. Collect many American dollars from Austin, take Juana away, and I will marry her myself.”

Rosita remained silent, her eyes searching the gross features of Mendez. She had hated him for many years, but now she hated him still more. Give Juana to Mendez? Impossible. But how to get rid of Mendez?

“In Piñon I have a priest,” said Mendez softly. “He will marry us.”

“Juana would never marry you.”

“Why not? Am I not wealthy? Am I not the biggest man in Piñon? You speak as though I were a peon. Huh!” Mendez snorted and began tugging at his moustache. Then he drained the rest of the wine at a gulp.

“And you have no compassion for Señor Austin,” continued Mendez. “Did he not cast you aside in favour of another woman—a white one—and knowing that a child was to come into the world? You owe him nothing. I, Mendez, will see that he pays well. Oh, he will pay well, and no mistake.”

“And you will take half,” said Rosita evenly.

“Why not?”

“Did I ask for your assistance in this matter?”

“I offer my help. My wife was your sister. It needs a man to deal with a man. Your half will be more than the whole would be, if I did not handle this matter in a big way.”

“Suppose,” softly, “that I did not intend any such a thing.”

“In that event,” grinned Mendez, “I shall handle it for myself alone.”

There was no way to shake Mendez from his purpose.

Graft seldom came his way, and he would make the most of it. “And I shall marry Juana,” he added firmly. “That is settled. Now, I shall have more wine and chicken.”

Rosita went to the kitchen, ordered the food and wine, and came back, but not to continue the conversation. Mendez watched her meet Juana at a doorway, saw her touch the girl on the arm, and they both entered the house, closing the door behind them. Mendez scowled and tugged at his moustache. It occurred to him that Rosita desired a word with Juana, and he also felt that the word might be about him.

So he got quietly to his feet and stepped over near the door. Just to one side of the door was a small window, covered with an iron grille. Luckily for him the window was open, and he could hear the women talking. With his eyes on the entrance from the cantina, both ears trained on the conversation, Mendez appeared to be merely leaning against the wall, deep in thought.

They were speaking in English, which Mendez understood better than he could talk it.

“But why should I go away for a trip, mother?” asked Juana. “There has been nothing said of any trip. I do not understand.”

“I intended it as a surprise, dear. We can afford it now. There is not much to be prepared. As for clothes, you can buy them in Chicago.”

“But I do not care to go. It is sweet of you to offer this, mother; but I do not care to go—alone.”

“Is it because of Hal?” Rosita inquired.

Mendez had pricked up his ears. Rosita was trying to get Juana away. To Mendez it seemed certain his sister-in-law was trying to double cross him.

“Hal is in trouble,” replied Juana miserably.

“Trouble?”

“Yes. He says he drank too much in Silver Bar, and they accuse him of killing a man. He does not remember anything about it. The sheriff said it was self-defence, and Hal did not get arrested, but Cal Sands told Hal’s father that it was not self-defence—that Hal shot the man in the back. Now his people think him a murderer. The sheriff lied to protect Hal. The dead man was Slade, who was down here several times with Hal.”

“I remember him,” said Rosita sadly. “But if it was to be a secret, why did Sands tell Hal’s father?”

“Because he hates Hal. He has hated Hal ever since Hal took me to that dance at Keno City. You see, Cal Sands asked me to marry him.”

“I thought as much. Where is Hal to-day?”

“He went to Keno City. He is very sick over it all, and I’m afraid he may meet Cal Sands. He wants to see his mother and sister, but he does not care to go to the ranch while his father and Cal Sands are there.”

“You have given up the foolish idea of marriage?” asked her mother.

“Is marriage really foolish, then, mother? You said we might marry, as soon as he had his father’s permission. You forget that Hal is of age.”

“It was for the good of both of you, Juana. Unless his father agreed to the marriage, Hal would lose his inheritance. Hal is used to luxury. He loves you now, but would he love you later, when he finds that he must work every day at small wages to support you? Would he not look back at what he had given up—and hate you for it? And, Juana, do not forget that Hal is American—you are Mexican.”

“Am I?”

“What else, child?”

Mendez was obliged to strain his ears to hear what Juana was saying.

“I remember a long time ago—years ago. Some one had placed me on one of the cantina tables. Porfiro Mendez and some of his men were in there, and you were behind the bar. One of the men said something about my being a pretty little thing, and Mendez said: ‘Not bad for a half-breed—she’s half white.’”

“Why, that—that is ridiculous. Child, you were dreaming.”

“No, not dreaming, mother. Was my father’s name Diaz?”

“This is all foolishness,” said Rosita wearily. “I do not know what ever put such foolish ideas into your head. Childish dreams that come back like a reality. You are upset over what happened to Hal. Just forget it and plan on a nice long trip. I must go.”

Mendez stepped quickly back to his table, and was seated when the Indian woman came in with the tray of food. Rosita came out, crossed the patio and entered the cantina. Juana had followed her to the doorway, where she stood and stared at the broad back of Porfiro Mendez.

Had she dreamed all this of the day Mendez had called her a half-breed, she wondered?

When the Indian woman went back with the empty tray, Juana went swiftly over to Mendez, who looked up quickly, grunting with astonishment.

“Seet down, querida mía.”

“I would ask a question.”

“Question?”

“Once you said I was half white.”

“Madre de Dios!”

“It was there in the cantina, long ago.” Juana pointed a slim finger toward the doorway. “You said, ‘Not bad for a half-breed—she’s half white.’”

“Por Dios! I mus’ ’ave been dronk. Seet down, Juana.”

But Juana was not to be so easily appeased. She leaned across the table. “You knew my father?”

Mendez scowled heavily, thinking swiftly. “No, I never see heem. Thees Diaz marry your mother biffore I come ’ere.”

“And my mother’s name was Diaz?”

“Sure. Thees worl’ ees full of Diaz people.”

Neither of them saw Rosita come back to the cantina doorway.

“Where is my father now? Is he dead? Why did he leave my mother?”

“She never tell you? Hm-m-m-m-m. Mus’ be secret, eh? Well, thees Diaz ees not wort’ damn. He don’ trit your mother ver’ good. He’s ’orse-t’ief. Your mother she say to me, ‘Porfiro, thees ’usband from me ees no damn good.’ I’m say, ‘Rosita, w’at you wan’ me to do from heem?’ and she say she not stand for heem, biccause he’s not trit ’er good.

“So I’m come over and I’m say to heem, ‘Diaz, I’m come for run hell out from you, biccause you not trit Rosita ver’ good.’ Thees Diaz scare’ from Porfiro Mendez, and he’s start ronning. I’m chase heem over top of Yaqui Mountain, and he keep go on and on. Carajo, thees man can ron fas’.”

“Very interesting,” said Juana seriously. “But just now you said you had never seen Diaz.”

“Ver’ true, but I’m mean I’m never see him close. All thees thing I say to heem, I’m yall long ways.”

“I see. So my father was not much good?”

“The wors’ man that ever leeve. Now, weel you seet down?”

“No, thank you,” and Juana went back to her room.

Mendez looked over at the cantina doorway, where Rosita was standing, looking at him. Mendez grunted and poured out a glass of wine.

“Por Dios! Por Dios! Está la vida,” shrieked one of the parrots.

“’Ow you like thees ’usband I’m beeld for you, Rosita?” asked Mendez softly.

“Thank you, Porfiro.”

“Oll right,” and Mendez waved airily. “You are my par’ner, and I’m ’ave to lie for you.”

CHAPTER X
Suspects

The murder of Terrill was the big subject of conversation in Silver Bar the next day. The sheriff and the doctor, who was also the coroner, had gone out there with the two 7 Bar 7 hands, Dug Blewett and Heinie Shafer, and brought the body back to town in a wagon. It was plainly a case of murder, as Terrill was unarmed, his holstered gun being on the table. Except for that fact it might have looked like a suicide, as the bullet had been fired at close range.

In the privacy of his office, Nolan questioned the two hard-bitten cowpunchers closely. They said Terrill had gone to town early in the evening.

“He was either sore or scared,” said Blewett. “I done told Heinie that Terrill acted like he was gunnin’ for somebody.”

“And he comes back home jist a while before we hears the shot,” added Shafer. “We heard him come in.”

“Are yuh sure it was him?” asked the sheriff.

“Yeah. I went to the door and yelled at him. I says, ‘Yuh made a quick trip,’ and he said, ‘Yeah, I didn’t stay very long.’”

“How long was it before yuh heard the shot?”

“Mebby fifteen, twenty minutes. I dunno how long it was.”

“And yuh didn’t see anybody leavin’ there, eh?”

“Not a soul. We went straight to the house and seen what happened, and then we comes right over here to tell yuh about it.”

“All right. Keep still about everythin’ and don’t say a word about Terrill comin’ over here last night.”

“I reckon we know how to keep our mouths shut,” grinned Shafer.

Early in the morning Nolan had a talk with the livery-stable keeper, Oscar Knudson. “You was here at the stable all night, Oscar?”

“Sure.”

“What time did Glendon and Wells ride away from here last night?”

“Glendon and Wells? Hell, they never rode away at all.”

“Are yuh sure of that?”

“Well, they never rode their own outfits, if they did. Them horses has been right in here all night. Who said they rode out last night?”

“Nobody—I just thought they did.”

“Nossir.”

The sheriff went away and Oscar Knudson scratched his partly-bald tow-head thoughtfully. He had drunk considerable liquor last night, and he remembered playing a number of games of pool. Still, he remembered that the two horses were in their stalls, when he came back. No, he could safely swear that the two horses had not been out of the stable last night.

Nolan went back to his office and tried to puzzle it out. There was a bare possibility that either Shafer or Blewett had killed Terrill. Still, there was lack of motive. What had there been between Terrill and Goober Glendon, he wondered? Terrill had been in town, apparently unobserved by anybody, and had tried to ambush Goober Glendon. Terrill had escaped and gone home, only to meet a bullet.

Nolan knew the approximate time of the attempted murder of Glendon, and also the approximate time of the shot which killed Terrill. He knew Glendon and Wells had gone to the hotel, Glendon still suffering from the shock of that bullet. It seemed hardly possible that Glendon could have taken his horse from the livery stable, ridden out to the 7 Bar 7, killed Terrill, and brought his horse back, unobserved by any one.

Nolan left the office and went over to the saloon across the street. He remembered that several men had come over from there just after Glendon had been shot. The night bartender had not gone to bed, and Nolan drew him aside.

“Do you remember who was in here when that shot was fired at Glendon last night?”

The bartender squinted thoughtfully. “Yeah, I believe I do, Nolan.”

“Was Oscar Knudson here?”

“Yeah—sure he was.”

“Yo’re sure of that, are yuh?”

“Y’betcha. Oscar and Slim Peterson was playin’ pool. When that shot was fired, Oscar says, ‘Set ’em up in de odder alley!’”

“How long after that did Oscar stay here?”

“I dunno. Him and Slim played a lot of games.”

“Couple of hours?”

“Probably longer than that. I don’t believe either him or Peterson left here much before midnight.”

Nolan went back to his office, firmly convinced that Goober Glendon or Johnny Wells had killed Terrill. The fact that Knudson had been away from his stable until about midnight made it possible for them to have taken their horses unobserved. It looked as though Terrill had tried to kill Glendon, failed, and in turn was killed by Glendon. But there was not sufficient evidence to warrant an arrest. Nolan looked up as Johnny Wells came in.

“Where’s Glendon?” asked the sheriff gruffly.

“Goober’s nursin’ a sore spot,” grinned Johnny. “Pretty sore t’day.”

“Any idea who shot him?”

“Have you?” countered Johnny.

Nolan’s jaw jutted a little. “How would I?”

“I dunno. You know more bush-whackers around here than we do.”

“I do, eh?” flared the sheriff.

“Yuh ought to know more—you’ve been here longer.”

“I don’t like that kind of a remark, Wells.”

“About you knowin’ bush-whackers?”

“Yes. How would I know any?” rasped the sheriff.

“Ain’t it yore business to keep track of crooks?”

“I didn’t know we had any.”

“Yuh know it now, don’tcha? One murder and another attempted murder in one night. Or is that merely a common pastime among the best people, Nolan?”

The sheriff scowled thoughtfully. “It seems to me that Glendon ought to have some sort of an idea who tried to kill him.”

“Mebbe he did.”

“I think he did, too. Was that why you two rode out to the 7 Bar 7 last night?”

Nolan was watching the young cowboy’s eyes closely, but there was not a flicker of anything to suggest that Nolan’s question had startled him.

“Mind askin’ that again?” queried Johnny. “I don’t reckon I heard yuh.”

“You heard me all right, Wells. Last night you and Glendon rode out to the 7 Bar 7.”

“My memory must be failin’ me,” smiled Johnny coldly. “And what would we be doin’ out there?”

“You know what happened out there?”

“Shore; a feller named Terrill was killed. What’s that got to do with us?”

“This much,” said Nolan evenly. “You and Glendon high-tail out of here. I’m not sayin’ that Terrill didn’t get what was comin’ to him. I don’t reckon it would be hard to prove that Glendon knew Terrill; that Glendon mebbe came here to git Terrill. Mebbe Terrill knew this, Wells. Mebbe Terrill tried to bushwhack Glendon. That can’t be proved. But I’ll bet I could prove to a jury that Glendon killed Terrill last night.”

“There’s a lot of maybe’s in yore statement,” drawled Johnny.

“All right, have it yore own way. But Terrill was murdered. He never had a chance. That forty-four bullet went plumb through his heart.”

“Yeah? That’s funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“Me and Goober both shoot .45’s.”

Nolan smiled softly. “More’n one way to find out what size guns you fellers use. I hated to come right out and ask.”

“Then yuh ain’t dug out the bullet yet, eh?”

“Not yet. I’d advise that you have a talk with Glendon,” the sheriff said warningly.

“Talk with him about what?”

“Pullin’ out of here. I’ll forget what I know, if yuh do.”

“You’ll forget what yo’re guessin’ at,” corrected Johnny, as he stood up.

Nolan got to his feet and came closer to Johnny. “Guessin’, eh? I’ll show yuh how much I’m guessin’. You and that old dried-up milk-cow detective be out of here by to-night, or I’ll have yuh both in jail for murder.”

“What are you scared of?” asked Johnny evenly.

“I’m not scared of anythin’.”

“Yo’re scared to have us stick around here, it seems to me. Yo’re a hell of a sheriff. If you think we murdered Terrill, why are yuh compoundin’ a felony by askin’ us to make our escape? Threatenin’ to jail us for murder. It seems to me that it’s a personal proposition with you.”

“Don’t you try to tell me my business.”

“You shore need some tellin’.”

Sheriff Nolan was exasperated. Naturally of a hair-trigger temper, and with an exaggerated idea of his own importance, he flared red hot at the idea of this smooth-faced cowpuncher trying to tell him what to do. “You think I do, eh?” he snarled. “Well, it won’t be from you.”

“Some folks ain’t got brains enough to accept good advice.”

The last was a flame to dry powder.

“Damn you, I’ll kick you plumb across the street!”

Nolan’s intentions were of the very best, and he started his kick without regard for anatomy. But Johnny moved swiftly, caught the swishing boot at the extreme top of its arc, and yanked so hard that Nolan’s other foot left the floor. It was a terrific crash. Nolan’s head hit the corner of his desk, scoring a complete knock-out to the credit of that piece of furniture.

Johnny stepped to the doorway, grinned softly, and proceeded up the street. He met the doctor near the hotel, and the doctor said: “I wonder if Nolan is in his office.”

“He was there when I left,” said Johnny seriously. “I don’t reckon he’s left since then.”

Nolan was in his chair when the doctor came, still a little dazed and not a little mad, but the doctor did not notice. He tossed an object to the desk-top before the sheriff. “That’s the bullet that killed Terrill,” the doctor-coroner announced. “Not even battered much.”

“Thirty-eight!” snorted the sheriff.

“Yes, sir. Inquest to-morrow, I suppose, sheriff?”

“Might as well,” growled Nolan, and the doctor went out.

Nolan rubbed his sore head. The previous events were very clear. He had let his temper run away with him again, and this smart cowboy had dumped him on his head. The sight of that .38 bullet angered him and he threw it into a drawer.

“Lotta good that’ll do me,” he complained to himself. “Thirty-eight bullet—and they both shoot .45’s. I reckon I was barkin’ up the wrong tree. But who shoots a thirty-eight? Plenty men. Who shoots a thirty-eight and holds a grudge against Terrill? That’s one thing I’ve got to find out.”

Johnny Wells went up to their room at the little hotel, where he found Goober stretched out on a bed, reading an old magazine. In a few words, Johnny told him of the conversation at the sheriff’s office, and what had happened to Nolan. Goober frowned thoughtfully.

“Milk-cow detective, eh?” he chuckled. “That feller shore knows me. Set down and rest yore hoofs, kid. Don’t worry about Nolan. He may suspect that me and you was out at the 7 Bar 7 last night, but he’d have a sweet time provin’ it. There ain’t no question in my mind that Terrill tried to put me on a damp cloud playin’ a harp, last night. He’s allus been playful thataway. Terrill’s been runnin’ crooked around here. If he wasn’t, he’d never take a chance on murder, because there ain’t no warrant against him that I knowed anything about.

“Terrill high-tailed it out of here, after shootin’ me. Likely he went east from here, swung around and headed back to his own road later. Now the question is this: who came in behind us, went in the house and killed Mr. Terrill? Nolan didn’t have no hand in it, because I asked questions enough to find out that Nolan was here all the time, until them two 7 Bar 7 cowpunchers brought in the news of Terrill’s killin’.

“I can’t find anybody that is willin’ even to suspect anybody. Some of ’em kinda hinted that mebbe his two punchers killed him. But we know that ain’t true. And now Mr. Nolan is sore at us and politely asks us to fade out of the country, eh? Let’s do it, Johnny. Let’s go over to Keno City. I’d like to hear what they know about Terrill over there.”

“It wouldn’t look as though we was runnin’ away, would it, Goober?”

“Personally I don’t care what Nolan thinks.”

“I don’t want to let anybody run us out,” Johnny protested.

“They ain’t; and don’tcha worry about that. Pack yore war-bag and let’s start travellin’.”

“How’s yore stummick?”

“I reckon the crisis is past,” laughed Goober, drawing on his boots. “I soaked it with horse liniment, and she’s fine. C’mon.”

CHAPTER XI
Out of the Frying Pan

“I AM glad it is all settled,” said Frank Austin, handing the pen back to the lawyer. He reached across the table and shook hands with Cal Sands. Between them lay the signed and sealed document which made Cal Sands half owner of the Star A cattle and horse outfit.

“It’s shore a big day for me,” smiled Sands, looking at the smudge of ink on his finger. “I can’t believe I own half that outfit.”

“Well, you do, Cal. Now I wish you could accomplish what I mentioned when I first spoke of making you my partner.”

Sands pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Yuh never can tell, Frank. This might be a big inducement in that direction, as soon as it becomes known.”

“Yes—money makes a difference.”

While they were talking in the lawyer’s office, Hal Austin rode into Keno City on a rangy sorrel. Smoky Hill was sitting in the shade of the sheriff’s office, and Hal drew up there.

“Hyah, Hal,” grinned Smoky. “Long time I no see yuh. Too mucho señorita.”

Hal grinned, but shook his head. “I been stayin’ down at Indian Wells.”

Smoky nodded and glanced up the street. “Yore pa and Cal Sands are up there at Charley Bell’s office now. I heard he’s takin’ Cal Sands in as his partner in the Star A.”

“No!”

“That’s what I heard. Git down and stay a while.”

Hal’s face was a little white beneath the tan, and his hand gripped tightly on his reins. “I haven’t time now, Smoky; later, mebbe.”

Hal turned and rode down a side street, circled the town and came out on the road to the Star A. He did not want to meet his father or Cal Sands. What in the world had induced his father to give half of the Star A to Cal Sands, he wondered? His father had promised to make him half owner, as soon as he was capable of running the ranch. Capable! He was supposed to learn the business from Cal Sands, and just because he and Cal Sands did not get along, Cal Sands got the ranch.

Hal had been capable of doing a cowboy’s work. Sands could not teach him more than that. Hal wondered bitterly what Sands had told his father. He would have given odds that it was not the truth.

Hal had heard about the inquest over Slade’s body. If the Silver Bar officers were willing to cover up the name of Austin in the matter, why should Cal Sands tell his father, even pointing out the fact that Slade had been shot in the back? Hal had tried to remember what happened that night, but was unable to remember a single thing, except that there had been guns fired, and that he had been handled roughly.

He had never quarrelled with Slade. In fact, he had liked Slade better than any of the cowboys at the ranch. But he had no defence to offer in refutation of Sands’s statement that he had shot Slade in the back. Legally he was safe, but morally, and in the eyes of his father, he was a murderer.

It did not seem to Hal that his father had given him any consideration. He had not asked Hal for any statement as to what he knew about it. He had taken Cal Sands’s word as final. And now he had given the foreman half of the big ranch.

“I reckon that settles me with dad,” Hal reflected bitterly as he galloped toward the Star A. “He has probably told mother and Betty, but I’ll face ’em. I don’t want dad and Cal Sands there; I want to talk to mother and Betty alone. Unless Sands has hypnotised everybody on the ranch, I’ve got a chance at least to deny the charges.”

Old Omaha was dragging a heavy trunk through the front doorway when Hal rode into the yard. Mrs. Austin was going to make good with her declaration to leave the ranch that day. Omaha watched Hal dismount.

“Well, dog-gone!” snorted Omaha. “Where yuh been, Hal? Everybody’s been huntin’ for yuh a long time. Didn’t yuh know yore mother and sister was here?”

Hal started to reply, when his mother came to the doorway.

“Hal!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Hal, I’m so glad to see you!”

He went up the steps in two jumps, and threw his arms around her. Omaha cleared his throat and went shuffling back into the house. They drew away from each other, and Betty appeared on the scene.

“I heard mother speak your name, Hal,” she said, “and I nearly fell over my trunk.”

Hal threw one arm around her and kissed her.

“You didn’t know we were here? Why, Hal, we’ve been here ages.”

“Your father has searched for you every day,” said his mother. “He and Cal Sands have been to Keno City, Silver Bar, Indian Wells— oh, all around, but they couldn’t find you. Why, we are leaving here to-day, Hal. Betty and I thought you had gone home.”

Hal shook his head. It was evident that his father had not told them about the Slade killing.

“Dad and Cal Sands are in Keno City to-day,” offered Betty.

“I know they are.”

“Oh, did you see your father down there?” asked Mrs. Austin.

Hal laughed harshly and shook his head. “No, I dodged both of them.”

“You—you dodged your father?” Mrs. Austin stammered. “Why, Hal, he has searched for you—wanted to find you. And you—why, I do not understand.”

“I didn’t come out here to make a confession, mother,” he said wearily. “God only knows what you’ll think when you hear about it; but you’ll know why I dodged dad and Cal Sands. I was in Silver Bar the night you came, drunk.

“Oh, I’m not trying to prove any alibi for myself, mother. Excuse my French, but I’ve been in a hell of a mess. No, don’t ask any questions; I’ve got to talk.

“I went down there with Jigger Slade. I liked Jigger. He found me in Keno City and asked me to ride over to Silver Bar with him. He heard that dad was coming there, and for some reason he wanted to see him. I had no dinner, and I drank on an empty stomach. It knocked me out pretty quick. I remember some shots being fired, and some one was shoving me around.

“I woke up over near Keno City in a buggy with one of our cowboys, Tommy Wilson, who told me I had shot Jigger Slade in self-defence. I didn’t believe it. However, I went on down to Indian Wells, because I didn’t want to see dad right away. But for some reason they covered up what I had done, and laid the blame of the shooting on some cowboy from over on Flask River.

“I didn’t know you were here, until I saw dad down in Indian Wells. I was riding back with dad and Cal Sands, when Sands and I quarrelled. Then Sands told dad that Slade wasn’t shot in self-defence at all—that I shot him in the back—murdered him. Sands said that, because of dad, the authorities made it self-defence.”

“Why, Hal!” Mrs. Austin’s face was pasty. “They—they say you murdered a man? You couldn’t do that!”

“Dad believed Cal Sands.”

“Why, this is terrible!” exclaimed Betty. “Dad certainly wouldn’t believe you could do a thing like that.”

“But he does, Betty. Sands has him hypnotised. To-day he presented Sands with a half interest in this ranch—the half interest I was to have.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Mrs. Austin weakly. “They said they were going to make one last effort to find you.”

“They knew where to find me.”

“But about this shooting,” said Mrs. Austin. “It is a terrible thing. Tell me what happened, Hal.”

“I don’t know anything about it, mother. They held an inquest, but my name was not mentioned. The authorities covered it up in some way. Sands said it was on account of dad. They made it self-defence, and said another man did the shooting. But that doesn’t alter the fact that—oh, what’s the use? Dad didn’t want me to come out here.”

“I can’t believe that,” sighed his mother. “Still, he and Sands deceived us.”

“Sands!” exclaimed Hal angrily. “If it hadn’t been for Sands, everything would have been all right.”

“He wrote to your father, Hal. That was why we all came. He said that you were drinking, gambling, running around with questionable women; that you cursed him for trying to interfere, and left the ranch.”

Hal laughed bitterly. “Perhaps I drank too much and gambled a little, but he lied about the women.”

“But there is a woman, isn’t there, Hal?” queried Betty.

“Yes.”

“A Mexican girl?” asked his mother.

“Juana Diaz,” said Hal. “Sands wanted her, but she disliked him. I brought her to a dance at Keno City, and the next day Sands and I quarrelled. It wasn’t because I drank and gambled, but because I stole the girl he claimed. I didn’t really do that, because she never liked him.”

“But a—a Mexican girl, Hal!” said his mother. “I do not approve.”

“Neither does her mother, apparently. She said I would have to have my father’s approval before I could have Juana.”

“Ah, that is sensible.” Mrs. Austin sighed with relief.

“It sounds ridiculous,” declared Betty. “Hal is of age. Why should they seek the approval of his father?”

“Betty, your father always knows best.”

“I’d like to have that proved to me,” said Hal bitterly. “But it doesn’t matter now. I’ll get a job at forty dollars a month and stay down here.”

“Nothing of the kind,” replied Mrs. Austin severely. “You go home with us.”

“Thank you, mother, but that is impossible.”

“You would give up everything for that Mexican girl?”

“Give up everything? What is there for me to give up? Dad is through with me; he has proved that. I’d marry Juana in a minute, if she’d agree—even if I had to work for a month.”

“I’d like to see her,” said Betty.

“Would you do that, Betty? Gosh, I’d like that. How about you, mother? Would you be willing to meet Juana and her mother?”

“I’m afraid that would be impossible, as we are going away to-day.”

“We could go to-morrow,” said Betty quickly.

“Well——” Mrs. Austin paused dubiously. “Does this Mexican woman speak English?”

“Better than I do,” smiled Hal. “Juana is educated.”

“I see. But your father might object to our going there.”

“Surely there could be no harm in it,” said Betty quickly.

“Not any harm—no. I think we shall do that. Betty, will you tell Omaha to take that trunk back into the house?”

“Gee, that’s great,” sighed Hal.

“But just remember, we haven’t seen her yet,” said Mrs. Austin severely.

“And here come dad and Cal Sands!” exclaimed Betty, stopping in the doorway.

Hal’s eyes hardened as he watched the two men ride in. He got to his feet and hitched up his belt. Mrs. Austin put a hand on his arm quickly.

“Do not make a scene, Hal,” she warned.

He shook his head. “Not of my making,” he muttered. “Sooner or later there will be a showdown between Cal Sands and me.”

The two men dismounted at the stable, and Sands took charge of the horses, while Frank Austin came straight to the porch. He stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked intently at Hal. “So you finally decided to come up here, eh?” he said.

“I am here, dad.”

His father seemed at a loss as to what should be said next.

“Frank,” said Mrs. Austin, breaking an awkward pause, “why did you insist that Hal did not know we were here?”

“So that’s the way it is,” he replied. “I try to protect everybody concerned, and he makes me out a liar, eh?”

“I told them the truth, not knowing what you had said,” replied Hal evenly.

Frank Austin flushed hotly. Hal seemed cool; there was almost a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Well, I did it all for the best,” sighed Austin wearily.

“The best?” queried Mrs. Austin.

“Yes, the best. It seems that the young man has been dragging the name of Austin in the deepest mud he could find; and I thought it would be best for you and Betty to go back home, thinking that Hal did not know you were here. I’m sorry if I have done wrong, but there are things——”

“You can go ahead and talk freely,” said Hal. “I’ve told them the whole story.”

“You did? Everything?”

“Even that I’m supposed to have murdered a man.”

“My God, Hal! That was one thing I didn’t—— Why did you tell that?”

“Why not?”

“Well, if for nothing else, to protect your mother’s feelings.”

“Mother took it like a good sport.”

“Why not?” queried Mrs. Austin calmly. “I do not believe a word of it.”

“I wish I didn’t,” sighed Austin. “Luckily, it was handled right. Think what it would have meant to me, if—if the officers hadn’t considered me. The sheriff, the coroner, everybody concerned.”

Hal looked steadily at his father for several moments. “What did it cost you, dad?”

“Cost me? Why, what do you mean?”

Austin flushed hotly and seemed confused over the question.

“Your bank roll was their consideration,” said Hal flatly. “What was my worthless life worth to them, anyway?”

“That is my business,” angrily retorted his father. “You should be thankful that you are not in the jail at Silver Bar, charged with murder.” He turned to Mrs. Austin. “Are your trunks ready to send down, Laura?”

“We are not going to-day.”

“Not going? What changed your plans?”

“Hal did. I have heard his version of the story. It appears that the whole trouble started over the fact that Cal Sands was jealous of Hal. It was not because Hal drank and gambled too much, but because of the Mexican girl. I am utterly opposed to Hal marrying a Mexican girl, you understand. But there is a queer angle to this thing, Frank. This girl’s mother refuses to consent to a marriage until Hal has your consent.”

“Nothing queer about it,” blustered Austin. “She knows I’d cut Hal off without a cent. All they want is my money, and if you’d consider——”

“I have thought of that——”

“I’m glad you can see it.”

“At any rate, Hal is entitled to some consideration,” said Mrs. Austin. “He has asked that I go down and see this girl and her mother, and I shall do this for him. After all is said and done, Frank, Hal is of age. It would be unjust for you to disinherit him for selecting his own wife, after he is of age. Normal young men usually do that, do they not?”

“But, Laura, you don’t understand,” pleaded Austin. “This girl is an ordinary Mexican girl. You would not welcome her to your home. Why, such things are out of the question. I have some big ideas for Hal’s future, and this will squelch all of them.”

“Is that why you gave Sands half of this ranch to-day—to help my future?” asked Hal.

Austin shut his jaw tightly, glaring at Hal. “Well, what of it?” he snapped finally. “I made Sands my partner because I wanted a man to watch my interests down here. I’m so sick and tired of this country I don’t care to ever see it again.”

“That’s all right, dad,” replied Hal. “It is your ranch. Only you said I was to have a half interest, you remember.”

“Well, what is to hinder you from taking my half?”

“And being a partner of Cal Sands? No, dad; nothing like that. I owe him a punch on the nose, that’s all.”

Hal turned to his mother. “Will you come to Indian Wells to-morrow, mother?”

“Yes, Hal.”

“Fine. You, too, Betty. You’ll like Juana. Good-bye, everybody.”

They watched him mount and ride back toward Keno City. Austin’s face was a study in emotions as he left the porch and walked down to meet Sands at the corral.

“Well, what happened?” asked Sands.

Austin leaned his elbows against the fence and held his head in his hands. “Hal told them the whole thing, Cal.”

“No!”

“Everything,” Austin said bitterly.

“Holy smoke! What did Mrs. Austin say?”

“Didn’t believe a word of it. Blames you for running Hal away from here. And what is worse than that, she and Betty are going down to Indian Wells to-morrow to visit Juana and her mother.”

Sands whistled softly. “That’s bad, Frank.”

“The worst thing in the world. Suppose Rosita tells my wife——”

Sands shook his head. “Yore best bet is to tell yore wife all about it. That would clear everythin’ up and stop Hal from goin’ any further.”

“And ruin me for all time, Cal. Possibly you don’t know it, but my wife’s money put me where I am. Everything is Austin and Company—and Laura is the company. This ranch is the only thing I owned outright. Do you suppose for a minute I could afford to let Laura know I deserted this Mexican woman? No, your idea is all wrong, Cal. Damn it, if I could only think. Hal upset everything by confessing.”

“How about payin’ Rosita to keep her mouth shut—to refuse to meet Mrs. Austin? A few dollars might buy her off.”

“That’s right. But I couldn’t do it.”

“I could. Hell, you’ve got to do somethin’, Frank.”

“That’s true enough,” Austin admitted helplessly. “I’ve got five hundred in cash, if that would be enough.”

“Huh!” snorted Sands. “I could get her throat cut for less than that.”

“No, no! Nothing like that!” stammered Austin.

“Of course not—I merely meant that five hundred is a lot of money.”

“To-night?”

“Sure. No time like the present.”

CHAPTER XII
Inquiries

“Then I’ll make lo-o-o-ove to so-o-o-me turtle do-o-ve, ’wa-a-ay up on the mounta-a-a-a-ain.”

The last lingering note of sadness faded from Smoky’s throat as the deputy struck a few tentative discords on his guitar.

“Yo’re quite a singer,” said Goober Glendon.

“All the difference between him and a medder-lark is a lotta feathers,” said Pete La Plante, the sheriff of Keno City. “He’s wastin’ his time.”

“Wastin’ time doin’ what?” queried Smoky.

“Singin’.”

“There yuh are,” sighed the deputy. Smoky hung his guitar on the rifle rack and sat down on his heels against the wall, where his long fingers began the manufacture of a cigarette.

“I liked yore singin’, Smoky,” reminded Goober. “Mebbe I ain’t got no ear for music—I dunno. But it seems to me that you carry a tune real well, and yuh shore can quiver the old voice. ’Course I don’t sabe them words. I’ve done et a lot of turtle doves, but I never made no love to ’em.”

“I wouldn’t put anythin’ past Smoky,” said the sheriff.

Johnny Wells, jackknifed in the doorway of the office, turned and spoke to the sheriff. “Does Hal Austin ride a sorrel?”

“Rode one through here t’-day,” replied Pete.

“I thought it was him. Stopped at the courthouse.”

“He’s stickin’ around Indian Wells pretty close,” grinned Smoky. “But I don’t blame him. That there Diaz girl shore is a dinger. Hal kinda took the play away from Cal Sands, it looks t’ me.”

“Money—prob’ly,” said the sheriff.

“Yeah, that might be. But wait ’ll she hears that Frank Austin has made Cal half owner of the Star A outfit.”

“When did that happen?” asked Goober.

“I dunno jist when Austin done this here Sandy Claws act, but he done it. Sands is now half owner of the whole outfit.”

“Did you fellers know Terrill very well?” queried Johnny.

“Not very,” replied the sheriff. “He was out of my county, of course. Funny thing about him gettin’ killed thataway. You think he shot you, Glendon?”

“I hope so,” grinned Goober.

“Why do yuh hope so?”

“’Cause he won’t be able to try it agin.”

“My theory is that one of his own men killed him,” said Smoky. “He’s got a couple forked gents workin’ for him. If Silver Bar keeps goin’, they’ll have a bad reputation. Nolan must have his hands full; him not havin’ any deputy.”

“Hell!” snorted La Plante. “Lotta good a deputy’d do him or any other sheriff.”

“T’ me,” said Smoky thoughtfully, “a sheriff is only a figger-head. He wears the big star, draws the big money, talks a lot—but the downtrodden deputy is the brains and the action of the office. ’Course the sheriff gits the credit for anythin’ his office does—but the deputy is the man behind the gun.”

“He’d shore be behind somethin’,” retorted the sheriff. “A deputy shore don’t take chances. All the brains I’ve ever seen one of ’em use was in defence of their own life.”

“That may all be true,” grinned Smoky, “but who ever seen a dead sheriff, except one that died from natural causes?”

The argument might have gone on indefinitely, but a horse and buggy drew up to a hitch-rack across the street, and a tall, gray-haired man climbed out and tied the horse. He stood there for several moments, looking around, finally coming toward the sheriff’s office.

“That’s Ed Chandler, prosecutin’ attorney from Silver Bar,” said Smoky.

The sheriff went to the doorway and met the lawyer, who smiled seriously as they shook hands. “Yore quite a stranger over here, Ed,” said the sheriff.

“I know I am, Pete. Hello, Smoky.”

“Hello, Ed. How’s crime over in yore country?”

“Well, not very serious.”

Smoky introduced him to Goober and Johnny. The lawyer considered Goober gravely before he said: “The fact of the matter is this—I came over here to see you, Glendon.”

“To see me?”

“Just a little private matter which probably doesn’t concern you, but of importance to me.”

“Shore,” nodded Goober.

“Might go over and sit in my buggy.” They crossed the street and climbed into the buggy.

“You have done work for the Cattle Association,” said the lawyer.

Goober glanced at the stern profile of the lawyer, wondering where this might lead, but merely nodded.

“I sent them a wire,” continued the lawyer. “Their reply stated that your word was as good as gold.”

“Kind of ’em,” smiled Goober.

“Very,” dryly opined the prosecutor. “But I needed that assurance. You were in Silver Bar the night that a man named Slade was killed?”

“Yeah, I was there.”

“You did not see the shooting?”

“Heard it,” Goober stated.

“Do you mind telling me what you know about it? You say you heard the shots fired, but I want to know what else you heard, Glendon.”

Goober hesitated. The inquest had settled all the legal facts, and Goober did not want to incriminate Hal Austin. He had no idea what the prosecutor might be digging up.

“I don’t quite git yore drift, Mr. Chandler,” said Goober thoughtfully. “Everythin’ was settled at the inquest, wasn’t it?”

“Apparently. But later developments——”

“Put yore cards on the table,” grunted Goober. “It’s yore lead.”

“I’ll do that. You probably know that Frank Austin had the body shipped back to San Francisco to Slade’s relatives. The body was cremated.”

“I understand they’re crematin’ lots of folks these days.”

“Yes, that is true. Did you hear that Slade was shot in the back—murdered?”

“Can yuh imagine that?” muttered Goober softly.

“And that the cowboy from Flask River, who is supposed to have killed Slade in self-defence, died four months ago from an injury caused by a fall from a horse.”

Goober whistled softly.

“Here’s my cards, Glendon. I don’t know where the report comes from, except that my informant believes young Austin started it in Indian Wells. However, it is to the effect that young Austin shot Slade in the back, and that Frank Austin paid certain officials a lot of money to cover up on the deal. As soon as I heard this, I wired San Francisco officers to make an examination of Slade’s body. The body had been cremated the day they got my wire. The coffin had been prepared by our coroner, and was not opened by the relatives, except to identify the corpse.”

“Kinda kills off any chance to prove murder,” said Goober. “Didja say anythin’ to the sheriff or coroner?”

“Not a word. I can prove that the sheriff lied about that Flask River cowboy, but he could say he was mistaken. I happen to know Frank Austin drew five thousand dollars from the bank on the day of the inquest. That is not evidence that he bribed anybody, but it raises a suspicion. Those are my cards, Glendon.”

“Yore cards are good, but the game closed at the end of the inquest,” Goober pointed out. “All you’ve got is a lot of aces, and nobody to play ’em against. Here’s my hand, and it’s no good to you or anybody else. After that shootin’, Sheriff Nolan dragged Hal Austin into that saloon, claimin’ that Austin shot Slade in self-defence. But out of consideration for Frank Austin, he said he’d swear a cowboy from Flask River done the shootin’. They piled young Austin into a buggy and sent him back here.”

The lawyer smiled grimly. “So that’s how Nolan happened to pick the wrong cowboy, eh? An easy mistake to make, because he didn’t know this cowboy was dead. What did young Austin have to say about it at the time?”

“Not much. He was drunk and kinda dazed.”

“Did you see the body?”

“I didn’t examine it. The doctor was lookin’ it over.”

“He is also the coroner,” observed Chandler.

“Yeah; I recognised him at the inquest.”

“You didn’t hear any rumours about Austin buying off officials, did you?”

Goober shook his head quickly.

“Another thing, Glendon; did Hal Austin still have his gun, when you saw him?”

“The sheriff had it. Anyway, he said it was Austin’s gun.”

“Nobody seems to know where that gun is, but that doesn’t matter. I’m glad for your information. Not that it will help the situation a bit, but it shows how Nolan made his mistake. I’d hate to believe that any of our officials would accept a bribe. In fact, it appears that they covered up, before there was any promise of a bribe.”

“Call it a present,” smiled Goober, as they climbed out of the buggy.

“I believe it would be better to forget it, Glendon. I am sure you will not repeat what I have told you.”

“Not unless I talk in my sleep.”

They shook hands, and the attorney rode out of Keno City. Johnny Wells was crossing the street, and Goober joined him. As they entered the Keno Bar, Hal Austin left the courthouse, untied his horse and came down to the Keno Saloon. It was not over fifteen minutes later that Cal Sands rode into town, noted the sorrel at the hitch-rack, and immediately rode over to the sheriff’s office.

“Young Austin gettin’ drunk, as usual,” he remarked to Smoky.

“Well, he ain’t had much time yet,” grinned Smoky.

“He’s jist got here.”

“Where’s he been?”

“He was out to the ranch, wasn’t he?” asked the sheriff.

“Yeah, but he left there quite a while ago,” Sands said.

“Oh, he was over at the courthouse quite a while,” said Smoky.

Sands laughed shortly. “I wonder what he was doin’ at the courthouse?”

“Mebbe gettin’ a marriage licence,” laughed Smoky maliciously.

Sands frowned quickly.

“Speakin’ of courthouses,” said the sheriff, “I wonder what Chandler wanted of Glendon.”

Sands turned quickly to the sheriff. “Chandler from Silver Bar?”

“Yeah. He was here a while ago. Said he wanted to talk private with Glendon, and they went over to Chandler’s buggy. Chandler jist left here a little while ago.”

Sands frowned thoughtfully for several moments, then asked: “Pete, what is that Glendon doin’ over here, anyway?”

“Huh!” snorted the sheriff. “You’ll have to ask somebody that knows.”

“Jist a couple driftin’ cow-pokes,” said Smoky.

“Yea-a-a-ah?”

“Well, that’s all we know about him,” Smoky retorted.

“What’s yore suspicions?” queried the sheriff.

“Hell, it don’t make no difference to me what he’s doin’,” Sands disclaimed.

“They tell me yo’re half owner of the Star A,” said Smoky.

“Yeah,” the foreman admitted indifferently. Sands finally left the office and went up the street.

“I’ll betcha he’s goin’ to the courthouse to see what Hal Austin was doin’ there,” said Smoky.

The sheriff grinned. “He better let young Austin alone. Jist ’cause Sands is pardner with the old man, it don’t give him no right to ride herd on the kid. I got a tip that Frank Austin came out here to bust up the love-affairs of Hal and that Diaz girl; but from the amount of time the kid is spendin’ in Indian Wells, it kinda looks as though Frank was fallin’ down on the job.”

“And she was Sands’s girl before Hal showed up. Mebbe Austin has hired Cal to ride herd on the kid.”

This was partly true, and Sands meant to find out why Hal was at the courthouse. It was an old two-storey building on the main street, and the first office on the ground floor was the county clerk’s office. The door was open, and Sands sauntered in, apparently to merely pass the time of day with the clerk.

“Who’s goin’ to be best man, Cal?” asked the assistant clerk, grinning.

“Best man? What do yuh mean?” asked Sands.

“For Hal Austin’s wedding.”

Sands swore under his breath. Smoky’s guess had been right. The clerk drew out the licence book, flipped it open on the counter, and showed Sands where a marriage licence had been issued to Harold Austin and Juana Diaz, both of legal age.

Sands passed the matter off easily, talked a few minutes about nothing in particular, and went out. His first impulse was to ride back to the ranch and tell Frank Austin. But, knowing that Mrs. Austin and Betty were intending a trip to Indian Wells to-morrow to meet Juana and her mother, Sands decided that Hal and Juana would not get married until after that meeting.

He waited in Keno City until Hal left, and after a discreet interval, followed his rival down the road to Indian Wells.

CHAPTER XIII
Conflicting Conspiracies

Porfiro Mendez came back to Indian Wells, bringing with him Ricardo and Miguel, his two henchmen-cousins. It was Mendez’s intention to go to Keno City and have a talk with Frank Austin, but as they rode into Indian Wells, he saw Hal Austin ride in from Keno City. Mendez dismissed Ricardo and Miguel for the present, and decided to hang around a while in the hope of learning what was being said. Apparently nothing was going on at the Casa del Diaz. Mendez had a bottle of wine in the patio, then went through a rear gate and into the tiny garden at the rear, where he leaned against the wall and consumed a cigarette. A climbing rose, twining up the wall and over an old framework, half pergola, half fence, obscured him from the sight of a window. He could hear some one singing, and decided it was Juana.

The sound of footsteps caused him to flatten himself as much as possible against the old adobe wall.

It was Hal Austin, coming around from the opposite direction. Mendez heard him call softly to Juana and heard her answer him. Leaning out, Mendez could see Austin, but the deep window hid Juana from view. They were talking softly, and Hal was telling her that his mother and sister would be down the following day to see her and her mother.

“Gee, it’s great, Juana,” he said exultantly. “They’ll like you. If mother agrees, I’m sure your mother will.”

“Do you think your mother will?” asked Juana anxiously.

“I’m so sure that I stopped in Keno City and took out a marriage licence.”

“Oh, Hal, you didn’t do that!”

“It is right in my pocket, honey.”

“But your father——”

“If mother says yes, dad might as well agree.”

“Will your father come?”

“Quién sabe? But that doesn’t matter. Lean out further—please.”

Mendez slipped quietly into the patio, sauntered through the cantina and went back to the street, where Ricardo and Miguel joined him.

“Thees ees a tough job,” he said enigmatically.

“Sure,” agreed Ricardo, who knew nothing about it at all. “The toffer they are the beegger they fell.”

While they were talking Cal Sands rode in and tied his horse in front of another cantina. Mendez looked him over thoughtfully as the tall foreman of the Star A disappeared within the bar. Then he turned to Ricardo and Miguel, speaking in Mexican, and told them to watch and listen at the Casa del Diaz. He explained how it was possible for one or both of them to get behind the building and hear what was said in the rooms. The two Mexicans listened attentively. It was work to their liking.

“Hear everything,” insisted Mendez.

“In the patio, where there is wine?” asked Miguel.

“No! I myself shall be there.”

“It will soon be dark,” objected Ricardo.

“Always theenk from your belly!” snorted Mendez in his own particular brand of English.

“Madre de Dios! Breeng me some news I’m like to hear, and I buy you bot’ the beeggest dinner I ever eat in my life.”

“Cheeken,” said Ricardo. “Come on, Mike.”

Cal Sands, carrying five hundred dollars in his pocket with which to bribe Rosita, had several drinks in the cantina. Mendez came in and leaned on the wine-soaked bar, but Sands paid no attention to him. Mendez sipped his wine and wondered what brought Sands to Indian Wells. He knew Sands had been a bit attentive to Juana Diaz, before the advent of Hal Austin, and that Sands was Frank Austin’s right-hand man. Did Sands know of this marriage licence, he wondered? Mendez could never stand for that marriage. Not because it was all wrong morally, but because his plans to blackmail Frank Austin would be knocked into a cocked hat.

Sands wandered around the main street until after dark, but Mendez did not lose track of him, and finally the foreman went to the Casa del Diaz. Mendez was only a minute or two behind him, and he found Sands and Rosita talking together in the patio. Several others were eating at the little tables, and Mendez took a seat.

Finally Rosita led Sands into their living-quarters, and closed the door, while Mendez ordered wine, and swore to himself that he would cut the ears off both Ricardo and Miguel unless they brought him what was said between Rosita and Sands, which would likely be spoken in Spanish as Sands spoke the language fluently, and Rosita preferred it to English, although she spoke English with scarcely a trace of accent.

The old room was full of shadows from the five candles in the wrought-iron candelabrum. Rosita had not invited Sands to be seated.

“Are you sure no one can overhear us here?” he asked cautiously.

“This is my home,” she replied.

“All right. I’ll make it brief, Mrs. Diaz. Frank Austin has told me everything. You know as well as we do that marriage between his son and your daughter is impossible. Well, Hal was at the ranch to-day and has induced his mother and sister to come down and meet you, thinking that they might agree to his marriage with Juana. And, more than that, Hal secured a marriage licence in Keno City to-day.”

Rosita’s lips were shut tightly, her black eyes like deep pools in the shadows as she waited for Sands to continue.

“Frank Austin knows they are coming down here, but he does not know of this marriage licence. You understand why he does not wish to have Mrs. Austin and his daughter meet you and Juana. Nothing can be gained by it. Now it would be a simple matter for you and Juana to go away to-morrow, perhaps to Piñon. If they do not see you to-morrow, they will proceed to their home in San Francisco.”

“So he is afraid for his wife and daughter to meet me?” said Rosita.

“What good would it do?”

“Who knows?”

“Oh, be reasonable,” begged Sands. “Suppose you were to receive two hundred dollars for doing this—would it not be worth while?”

“Austin is willing to bribe me to not meet Mrs. Austin?”

“It would be worth that much to him.”

Rosita shook her head slowly. “I do not care for his money. Go back and tell him that his money does not mean anything to me.”

“But you will go away?”

“No! Run away from his gringo wife? I do not ask to see her. If she comes to see me, I shall meet her courteously and listen to what she has to say. I have nothing to conceal.”

Sands took a roll of bills from his pocket and showed them to her. “More than you would make in many days,” he said insinuatingly. “Take it, go away until they leave.”

Rosita’s answer was to walk to the back door and open it. “That is the shortest way off my premises,” she said.

“Aw, don’t be sore at me, Rosita,” he said, speaking in English. “I’m only doin’ this for Austin. He’s made me half owner of the Star A ranch, and I had to help him in this deal.”

“Just turn to the right, and you will be back on the street,” she said softly.

“All right, go ahead and be foolish,” angrily retorted Sands. “You’re the first Mexican I ever saw that wouldn’t take easy money.”

He laughed harshly, put the money back in his pocket, and walked out, closing the door behind him. For a moment he hesitated; then he started to put on his hat, when something crashed down on his head, and his consciousness vanished in a grand shower of Roman candles and skyrockets.

Mendez saw Rosita when she came back alone, and he wondered what had become of Sands. It worried him, until he paid for his wine and went back to the street, where he noted that Sands’s horse was still at the rack. He stood in front of the cantina for possibly fifteen minutes, when he saw Sands coming across the badly lighted street. The big cowboy was staggering a little and carrying his sombrero in his hand. As he came up to his horse, the lights shining directly on his head disclosed the fact that one side of his head was bloody. Mendez stepped over near him.

“W’at ’appen to you, Sands?” queried the big Mexican.

Sands licked his lips, as he gathered up his reins and climbed into his saddle. “Go to hell, will yuh?” he growled, and rode away.

Mendez chuckled softly. His two wide-hatted henchmen were coming across the street, and he guided them farther up the street, where no one might overhear what was said. Ricardo related the conversation between Rosita and Cal Sands, in which Sands had offered Rosita two hundred dollars to stay out of Indian Wells for one day.

“You are good for leestening,” said Mendez. “But w’at ’appen next?”

Ricardo shrugged his shoulders, but the next moment the big right hand of Mendez gripped his arm like a vice. “Those two ’ondred dollars,” he said, “Geeve it up.”

Ricardo gave it up, and Mendez conceded them each ten dollars.

“Dreenk damn leetle and go ’ome,” ordered Mendez. “Mañana, I’m use you.” Stuffing the money in his pocket, Mendez swaggered back to the cantina.

Ricardo chuckled softly and slapped Miguel on the back. “Thees Porfiro ees ver’ smart man, eh, Mike?”

“Oh, ver’ kind man,” grunted Mike. “He’s theenk these damn Gonzales got no brain on top from he’s ’ead. I geeve heem ten dollar.”

“Don’ be fool and keek some geeft ’orse in the cheen. How he’s know we got three honndred dollar more? I’m only spik from two honndred dollar. ‘Mañana, I’m use you, eh? All right.’”

Cal Sands rode out of Indian Wells in a half-dazed condition, and he did not discover the loss of his five hundred dollars until he was well on his way back to the ranch. He rubbed his sore head and cursed at the moon. Who had known he possessed that money, he wondered? Rosita was the only one, outside of himself and Austin—and Rosita had only heard him mention two hundred. Could it have been Hal Austin? No, he did not think Hal Austin, as much as Hal hated him, would do a thing like that. Anyway, the money would not interest Hal.

But Sands was not one to cry over spilled milk—especially if it was not his milk. Rosita had refused to be bribed; so some other scheme must be worked out to prevent the women from meeting. Cal Sands wanted Juana, and he was willing to do anything to prevent her marrying Hal.

It was midnight when Sands rode in at the ranch, and the ranch house was in darkness. But he found Tony Riecho, Dave Elkinson and Hank Britton playing three-handed poker in the bunk house. Sands’s personal appearance put an end to the poker game.

“Holy Mariar!” snorted Elkinson. “What happened to you, Cal?”

“Horse throwed me,” lied Sands. “I wasn’t lookin’ for it, and he shore stood me on my head.”

“I told yuh that blue horse wasn’t reliable,” reminded Riecho. “You shore got a knot on your head, feller.”

Britton got a pan of water and a towel, and they cleaned Sands’s head and face.

“I was down at Indian Wells, and I drank too much wine,” grinned Sands.

“Got drunk and fell off?” asked Tony.

“No, I got throwed. Served me right, I reckon.”

Sands sat down on the end of a bunk and rolled a smoke, while the boys settled up their game and dumped the poker chips back into a cigar box. Sands looked them over thoughtfully. In range parlance, they were both forked and salty—which meant that they were game for anything. Tony Riecho had served time for rustling; Elkinson had been tried and acquitted for horse stealing, and Britton’s past hinted at things that were decidedly outside the law.

“How’d you fellers like to make some easy money?” asked Sands.

The three men eyed him closely for several moments, and Riecho finally came over and sat down on the bunk beside him. “Easy money” meant something outside the law to them.

“How many years do we git, if they catch us?” asked Britton softly.

“And no chance to get caught,” added Sands.

Elkinson laughed. “It mostly allus looks thataway—at first.”

“This would be a cinch,” replied Sands. “Say, two hundred and fifty dollars apiece—and be as safe as a church.”

“Not such big money,” observed Riecho.

“Pretty good, considerin’ there ain’t no risk,” said Sands.

The men were all silent for a full minute. Finally Riecho shrugged his shoulders. “What’s on your mind, Cal?”

“To-morrow, prob’ly about ten o’clock in the mornin’, Mrs. Austin and Betty are startin’ for Indian Wells to have a talk with Rosita Diaz and Juana.”

“I know that,” nodded Tony. “Mrs. Austin asked me about the buckboard.”

“All right,” continued Sands. “It would be worth seven hundred and fifty dollars to Frank Austin if them women didn’t get to Indian Wells.”

“If they didn’t git there?” said Tony. “What’s the idea, anyway?”

“Tony, I can’t tell yuh the whole deal. But I can tell yuh how to earn the money. Tony will drive them. Dave, you and Hank pull out early into the hills, circle Keno City, and plant yourselves down near the mouth of Oreano Cañon. Take some old floursacks for masks. Stick up the buckboard, kidnap them two women, blindfold ’em, and take ’em back to that old adobe a couple miles up the cañon. Yuh could blindfold Tony and hogtie him, to make it look good, and leave him with the buckboard. Take them women back to the adobe, shut ’em in, and come back home. That’s all you’ve got to do. Tony can swear yuh went west, and we’ll delay findin’ ’em until about dark.”

“Yea-a-a-ah!” snorted Elkinson. “Suppose somebody caught us. You know damn well they hang yuh for kidnappin’.”

“Who would catch yuh? We won’t even notify the sheriff until it’s all over. You boys will be plenty safe.”

“Will Frank Austin back us in this?” asked Britton.

“You bet. I’ll tell yuh what I’ll do; I’ll have a talk with him in the mornin’, and I’ll have the money for yuh before yuh pull the job.”

“That’s fair enough,” agreed Tony.

“How about you, Dave?”

“Looks like more of a joke than anythin’ else to me.”

“It is—in a way. But the women are to be handled carefully.”

“Hell, yes. I like ’em both.”

“All right; that’s settled. I’ll see Frank in the mornin’.”

“All we do is stuff ’em in that old adobe, ride back home and call it a day, eh?” said Elkinson.

“That’s it. We’ll do the findin’—but too late for ’em to go to Indian Wells.”

“And you’ll be a hero,” laughed Tony.

“Well, somebody’s got to save ’em,” grinned Sands.

CHAPTER XIV
“Kidnapped”

Goober Glendon did considerable thinking over what Chandler, Silver Bar’s prosecuting attorney, had told him about the probability that Austin had bribed Nolan to cover up the shooting. He later told Johnny Wells all about the conversation.

Smoky Hill was curious, but Goober told him nothing, because he did not consider it any of the deputy’s business, it being an affair in the other county, out of his jurisdiction.

“That all fits in with the gun we got,” said Johnny. “Hal Austin had nothin’ to do with the shootin’—bein’ merely the fall guy. But who did, and why, Goober? I believe Hal Austin might know something, but don’t realise it. I’d like to know why Hal went to Silver Bar with Slade. Slade picked him up here, and they went over together.”

“Johnny, you’ve got the makin’s of a detective,” grinned Goober. “There’s only one answer to that cattle-stealin’ deal, as far as I can see; but it might be damn hard to prove it.”

“Who do yuh think shot Terrill?”

“I’d hate to try and prove my idea to a jury,” laughed Goober. “They’d say I was crazy . . . Slade was a private detective.”

“Who told you that?” Johnny demanded.

“Nobody. Frank Austin paid all the expenses of shippin’ that body back to San Francisco. That proves Austin hired him and felt responsible. Slade wasn’t an old hand at the Star A. My guess is that somebody knew Slade was a detective, and they knew Frank Austin was comin’; so they killed Slade to keep him from tellin’ Austin anythin’. When we was over in Silver Bar the last time, I found out from the postmaster that Slade got his mail there, instead of at the post office here.”

“Mebbe yo’re right, Goober. They knew Slade had somethin’ to tell, eh?”

“Shore. But it wasn’t any of the Star A outfit. I checked up on that,” Goober stated. “Sands and the Wilson boy were the only men in town from the Star A, and we know they didn’t have no hand in the deal. Might have been Terrill, might have been most anybody—but we do know that Nolan, the Silver Bar sheriff, is crooked. He covered up the murder—if it was a murder. And I’ll betcha he knows I’ve got Hal’s gun.”

“And only the two of us to swear that it never had been fired,” grinned Johnny. “He could swear that it had been fired, but that we cleaned it out later.”

“Shore,” agreed Goober heartily. “And he could prob’ly find plenty men who would swear that they looked through that barrel just after the murder. There’s a lot of drawbacks in detectin’, Johnny. But I reckon we’ll go down to Indian Wells and see if we can’t have a little talk with Hal.”

“And get another chicken feed at the Casa del Diaz,” grinned Johnny.

“Yea-a-a-ah!” snorted Goober derisively. “Big, dark eyes, black ha’r, and skinny ankles.”

“Yo’re gettin’ old, Goober.”

“Old enough to re’lise that I’m m’ own boss.”

They were crossing the street to the livery stable, when Mrs. Austin, Betty, and Tony Riecho went down the main street in the Star A buckboard, which had been remodelled and an extra seat added. Mrs. Austin sat stiffly, looking neither to right nor left, but Betty was missing none of the sights. She turned her head to look at Johnny, who jerked off his hat, stubbed his toe, and almost fell down, much to the amusement of Goober.

They talked with the stableman for several minutes before saddling, and as they rode out they saw Frank Austin and Cal Sands dismounting at the Keno Saloon. Johnny and Goober were in no hurry, and allowed their horses to shuffle along in the dusty road. The day was not uncomfortably warm. They travelled several miles without any conversation between them. The country was mostly broken hills, dry washes through which wound the old road. The hills were covered with patches of mesquite, cat-claw and yucca, with an occasional ocotillo—the tall, slender cactus with the flaming red flower on its tip. In some of the washes were live-oaks and scattering sycamores and willows.

They were still about four miles from Indian Wells, when Goober suddenly reined in his horse. On the right-hand side of the road, less than a hundred feet away, was the sorrel team from the Star A, tangled in some mesquite, the buckboard turned over on its side.

Both men spurred over there quickly and dismounted, dropping their reins and running around behind the upset buckboard, while the tangled team tried to break loose. Of the two women there was no trace, but on the far side of the overturned rig, pitched on his head in the mesquite, was Tony Riecho, as dead as he would ever be. Johnny quickly cut the team loose and tied them to a snag, running back to Goober, who was examining the body.

“This is the same rig we saw go through Keno City, ain’t it?” asked Goober.

Johnny nodded grimly, his eyes searching the barren hills. “Dead?” he asked, looking at the body.

Goober nodded. “Shot twice.”

“Hell of a note,” muttered Johnny. “Where’s the women? Yuh don’t suppose it was a runaway and they got throwed out back up the road, do yuh?”

Goober shook his head quickly. “Them tracks show what happened. Somebody tried to hold ’em up, I’d say. The driver got shot, yanked his team around to the right, and they tangled in the brush and upset. Mebbe they shot him again, before the rig turned upside down. Looks as though he pitched off the seat dead.”

Goober got to his feet and went searching around, trying to discover tracks, anything that might give him a clue, but the sandy soil did not hold tracks well. He had crossed the road and was searching the other side, when Frank Austin and Cal Sands came riding down the road. Goober turned and came back to them, about the time they saw the team and buckboard.

“For God’s sake, what happened?” blurted Austin. He dismounted, fell to his knees, and seemed to have difficulty in getting up again. Sands went over to the wrecked buckboard, where Johnny merely pointed at the dead man. Austin managed to get there, his face the colour of ashes. He grasped Sands by the elbow, as they stared down at the dead Riecho. Sands’s face was white as he turned to Goober.

“Did you—did you find things like this?” he asked hoarsely.

“Except that we cut the team loose,” replied Goober.

“My wife and daughter,” said Austin weakly, “where are they?”

“We been wonderin’ that,” said Johnny.

“Tony’s dead,” muttered Sands in horror. “Can yuh imagine that—dead?”

“Shot a couple of times,” nodded Goober. “Women gone. What do yuh make of it, Austin?”

Frank Austin looked decidedly shaky, as he gripped one of the wheels in both hands. “Why, I—I don’t know, Glendon. What’s to be done?”

“Women don’t disappear,” said Johnny foolishly. “You’d almost think the Apaches had busted loose again.”

“Kidnapped?” queried Goober.

“Why?” groaned Austin.

“If you don’t know, it’s a cinch I don’t,” Goober pointed out. “Johnny, you’ve got a fast horse; suppose you high-tail it for Keno and get the sheriff.”

Johnny was on his horse and galloping up the road, almost before Goober made the suggestion. Sands was almost afraid to look at Austin. This kidnapping had been his scheme, but he had not bargained for anything like this. Had Britton and Elkinson gone crazy on the deal, he wondered? If not, why had they killed Tony Riecho? Would the women be safely hidden in the old adobe? He knew they would not. This was not the mouth of Oreano Cañon; it was a mile beyond, nearer the town of Indian Wells. What had gone wrong?

Austin was looking at him as he lifted his head, and Sands looked quickly away. Goober was watching Austin’s face, and he saw Sands’s expression. Austin kept his eyes on Sands, and Goober saw his hands clench tightly.

“They know somethin’,” Goober told himself. “Austin is half crazy, and Sands is scared. They don’t act natural for a case of this kind.”

“What can the sheriff do?” mumbled Austin. “Where would he look for them?”

Sands shook his head, looking at the body, half buried in the brush. He was as much at sea as Austin, but Austin did not seem to believe this.

“Kinda funny business,” said Goober.

“Funny?” Sands turned quickly. Austin had stiffened.

“Nothin’ to laugh at,” said Goober. “But who knew them two women would be along here at this time? This sort of thing don’t jist happen.”

Austin shook his head. “I—I don’t know. Nobody knew it, as far as I know, except us at the ranch.”

“What’s yore theory, Sands?”

“Theory—hell!” snapped the big foreman disgustedly. “How can yuh arrive at a theory in a case of this kind? There’s Tony Riecho, dead; women gone.”

“Riecho?” muttered Goober thoughtfully. “Tony Riecho. Hm-m-m-m-m. Wasn’t he sent up from Cochise County several years ago?”

“What if he was?” growled Sands. “Lots of good men have been sent up. If he wanted to go straight—why not let him, Glendon?”

“Ex-cuse me,” said Goober dryly. Austin looked sharply at Sands. “You never told me anything about Riecho being an ex-criminal, Cal.”

“You never asked me,” sharply. “A man’s past is his own.”

“That’s right,” agreed Goober warmly. “I reckon we’re all livin’ in glass houses, Frank.”

Austin scowled, but had no ready reply. Sands walked about impatiently, and finally turned to Austin.

“No use of all of us stayin’ here,” he said. “I’ll go to Indian Wells and see what I can hear.”

“That’s right. Perhaps I better go along. I’d like to have Hal know what happened—and I can’t do a bit of good here—if you don’t mind staying here alone, Glendon.”

“It’s all right with me,” replied Goober.

The two seemed almost too anxious to get away from there. Goober squatted on his heels against the buckboard and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked slowly, trying to puzzle out what this meant. He had schooled himself in reading expressions, and he was sure that Austin and Sands knew something.

Austin had been too stunned over the affair. He had lost all initiative, it seemed, as though he knew something was to happen, but not in just that way. Goober scratched his head, got to his feet and walked around to the body. Riecho was dressed in a faded shirt, old gray vest, overalls and high-heeled boots.

Goober’s investigation of the vest pockets netted a few matches, a package of tobacco and some crumpled papers. From one hip-pocket he drew out a folded cheque for two hundred and fifty dollars, payable to Tony Riecho, signed by Frank Austin. The cheque was from a San Francisco bank. Goober replaced the cheque, and tried the opposite pocket. Deep in one corner was a small dirty handkerchief, wadded tightly; and in this handkerchief, one corner tied tightly through it, was a solitaire diamond, set in platinum. It was a beautiful stone and a beautiful piece of platinum work. Goober decided that it was worth a lot of money, admired the flashing stone for several moments, and finally put it in his own pocket.

“Yeah, our friend Tony Riecho wanted to go straight,” said Goober to himself. “That kinda proves that Tony was one of the gents that stuck up that stage. But why in the devil would Frank Austin give him a cheque for two hundred and fifty dollars, unless he was payin’ Riecho for somethin’ outside his regular work? That’s six months’ pay for a cow-poke.”

Goober sat down in the shade again and rolled another smoke. He knew it would require quite a while for Johnny to ride the round trip to Keno City, even if the sheriff was in town and started immediately. He glanced at his old silver watch and estimated that Sands and Austin had been gone nearly an hour. By this time Johnny would be in Keno City, perhaps starting back.

Goober got up and stretched his legs, yawning wearily. He happened to glance toward his horse; the animal was looking up the slope to the right, ears pricked forward. Goober could see nothing.

“What is it, Poncho—a deer?” he asked. The horse turned his head and looked at Goober, but shifted back toward the hill.

At that same moment something struck Goober on the head, knocking him flat in the dirt. Came the rattling report of a rifle shot, which echoed back and forth along the hills.

Goober heard the report of that rifle, and knew he was hit. The shock had knocked him down, his right arm partly cramped down under his right thigh, but he recovered quickly from the blow, and his right arm slid loose slowly, his hand clutching his heavy Colt. He did not move now. His hat had rolled several feet away, and Poncho was moving toward it, his nose outstretched. The horse was gun-broke.

Goober was entirely conscious. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead, and dripped past the corner of his right eye, but not a muscle of him moved. To any one on that slope of the hill it would seem that Goober Glendon had been killed instantly. His ears were tuned for any sound, but none came, except the cawing of some crows flying high overhead, and the soft creaking of his own saddle as Poncho moved restlessly.

“Got me the first shot, and hit the grit,” decided Goober, after lying motionless for fifteen minutes. He shifted his head carefully and peered at the brushy slope. Finally he got to his feet, picked up his hat and sat down in the shade of the mesquite to take stock of his injuries.

On the right side of his head, just above the ear, was a livid welt, not much over two inches in length, where a high-power bullet had left its trademark. At the forward end of the welt, the skin had been broken, but the bleeding had been slight.

“Creased me good,” he told himself. “Inch more to the left, and I’d be learnin’ chords on a harp right now. That’s shore a narrow margin.”

He sat down in the shade, nursing a headache, but thankful it was no worse. Some one had made another attempt on his life, and he had no idea who it might have been. No one except Johnny had known they were to come over that road. The shot had come from the brushy hillside.

“Mebbe it was the same fellers that pulled off this other deal,” he suggested to himself. “But if it was, why would they try to kill me? I’m darned if this ain’t queer. I figured Terrill tried to kill me because I knew too much about him; but I shore don’t know too much about anybody else around here.”

He was still musing over it, when Johnny came back with Pete La Plante and Smoky Hill. Johnny was the first to notice the bruise on Goober’s head.

“What happened to you?” he asked quickly.

“Stray bullet,” grinned Goober.

“What stray bullet?” queried the sheriff.

“Closer’n hell!” grunted Johnny. “Hurt yuh much?”

“Knocked me stiff for a few seconds,” Goober admitted.

“Yuh mean to say that somebody shot at yuh?” grunted the sheriff.

“Might have been a stray bullet. Comes hummin’ down off that slope, and shore knocked on my head. I lays doggo for quite a while, hopin’ that somebody shows up to see if I’m dead—but they don’t. No more shootin’—just that one shot.”

“Hell!” snorted Smoky. “Didja hear the report of the gun?”

Goober nodded quickly. “Sounded like the whang of a thirty-thirty.”

The sheriff cuffed his hat sidewise on his head and stared at Goober. “What’s all this about, anyway, Glendon?”

“I’d trade quite a lot for an answer,” grinned Goober. “But forget my end of it, and see what yuh can figure out on this missin’ women job.”

Pete La Plante yanked violently at one end of his drooping moustache, cuffed his hat to another angle, and walked over to the body.

“Don’tcha want to take a look at him, Smoky?” asked Johnny.

Smoky grimaced and shook his head. “Lookin’ at dead men don’t mean a thing to me, Johnny. And I don’t crave murders. Lookin’ at his boots is enough for me—knowin’ that on the other end is a dead man.”

As the sheriff turned away from the body, Frank Austin, Hal Austin, and Cal Sands rode in from Indian Wells. Hal was the first to dismount, badly excited, as he fired a volley of questions at La Plante.

“Wait a minute,” begged the little sheriff. “We jist got here.”

Sands eyed Goober closely. “What happened to you, Glendon?”

“Oh, this?” Goober laid a finger tenderly on the side of his head. “Well, some feller, who thinks he’s good enough to hit a man’s head at a couple hundred yards, miscalculated a little.”

“Did somebody shoot you?” asked Frank Austin anxiously.

“Aw, hell, it ain’t anythin’! What didja find out in Indian Wells?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, isn’t anything going to be done?” asked Hal querulously. “Don’t any of you realise that my mother and sister are missing? Where are they? Who killed Tony Riecho—and why? My God, you’d stand around here and argue about something else and—why don’t you do something?”

“Got any good ideas on the subject?” asked Goober dryly. “If yuh have, it might help a little. Yuh see, it ain’t goin to do a bit of good, runnin’ all around, until we’ve decided what might have happened.”

Hal flopped his arms wearily and looked at the hills. The sheriff was at a loss what to do. They looked at Tony Riecho and stood around the buckboard, as though waiting for him or it to speak and tell them what happened. It was Goober who reopened the conversation: “Austin, yuh don’t know anybody around here that hates yuh so much they’d steal yore wimmin folks, do yuh?”

“Not a soul.”

“Uh-huh. Well, how much would yuh pay to git ’em back safe?”

“Eh? Why——”

“What do yuh mean by that?” asked the sheriff quickly.

“You’d pay well, wouldn’t yuh, Austin?”

“Anything I’ve got.”

“Shore, yuh would; and that looks like the answer. You’ve been known as a millionaire: and a millionaire pays well.”

“You mean, they’ve been kidnapped and held for ransom?”

“Looks thataway.”

Austin sighed deeply. “Glendon, I hope you’re right. It would mean that no harm would come to them, unless I failed to pay.”

“By golly, I believe Glendon’s right!” snorted Smoky. “How about you, Cal?”

“I bow to superior wisdom,” said Sands rather mockingly. “Mr. Glendon seems to be the mental leader of the conference.”

Goober grinned slowly. “Thank yuh, Mr. Sands. Yore remark didn’t sound jist like what a cow-puncher might say, and I wondered for a moment jist what yore business was, before yuh turned cow-puncher.”

“What do yuh mean?” snapped Sands.

“Education crops out.”

“I’ve been to school, if that’s what yuh mean.”

“What difference does all this make?” asked Hal testily.

“We can’t do anything, Hal,” said his father. “I believe Mr. Glendon is right; so the thing to do is to wait until they show their hand.”

“Do yuh suppose the Mexicans have anything to do with this?” asked Johnny.

The sheriff shook his head quickly. “No, I don’t believe it, Johnny.”

They righted the buckboard, patched up the harness, and loaded in the body. The sheriff drove the team, while Smoky led the sheriff’s horse. Frank Austin did not ask his son to go with him to the ranch; so Frank and Sands rode on ahead of the sheriff’s equipage, while Hal went on to Indian Wells with Goober and Johnny.

CHAPTER XV
On the Cañon Rim

“Quit worryin’, son,” advised Goober, as they rode along the rusty old highway. “It’ll all turn out right.”

Hal shook his head. “It gets worse all the time, Mr. Glendon.”

“Worse?”

“You probably don’t know the inside of things,” said Hal hopelessly.

“No, that’s true—I don’t.”

“Well, I’m going to tell you something. Perhaps you’ll wonder why I tell you these things; but I can explain that, too. You know Mrs. Diaz?”

“Yeah, I knowed her a good many years.”

“She likes you.”

Johnny grunted quickly and looked at Goober, who coloured beneath his tan.

“Oh, I don’t mean it the way it sounded,” said Hal quickly. “She meant that you were on the square.”

“I’ll thank her for that,” grinned Goober.

“She’s fine,” continued Hal. “Comes from a good Mexican family. Mexican! What has race to do with it, anyway?”

“Do with what?” asked Goober.

“Marriage.”

“Hell, yo’re gettin’ me in deep water now, kid,” Goober protested.

“I beg your pardon—you don’t know what I mean. You see, my father shipped me down here to learn the cattle business. I suppose I was wild in town. I had too much money to spend. But that part doesn’t matter now. I came here and I met Juana Diaz. She was Sands’s girl—so he said. That wasn’t true. But Juana and I hit it off pretty well, and it made Sands mad. He made things miserable at the ranch for me; so I pulled out.

“It didn’t help Sands, as far as the girl was concerned; so he wrote lies to my father about me. That was why dad, mother and Betty came out here—to snatch a brand from the burning, as they say. I’m of age—but I never took advantage of that fact. I’m not ashamed to say that I wanted to marry Juana Diaz—and I’m going to do it.

“The night the folks came to Silver Bar, I rode over there with Jigger Slade, one of the Star A cow-punchers. I liked Slade better than any other man at the ranch. He was a little different—treated me as a man. I got blind drunk in Silver Bar that night. I didn’t know my folks were coming, although I feel now that Slade knew it. He merely said that some one was coming on the train, and he must be there. Perhaps you know what happened that night.”

“We were both there,” said Goober.

“You didn’t see the shooting?”

“No. We saw you, when the sheriff brought you into a saloon, and he told what happened.”

“All right—that’s fine. He said it was self-defence, and laid the blame on some cow-puncher from the Flask River country, because they didn’t want my father’s name connected with it. Did you see the body—examine it?”

“No, we didn’t examine it, Hal.”

“I wish you had. They made it self-defence—but Cal Sands—this is the awful part of it, Mr. Glendon: Cal Sands told my father that it wasn’t self-defence at all.”

“Said it wasn’t?”

“No. He said I shot Slade twice in the back—murdered him.”

“Hell’s delight!” exploded Johnny angrily. Goober pulled his hat a little lower over his eyes and lit a cigarette.

“That’s what Sands told my father, in my presence,” continued Hal.

“Branded yuh with murder before yore father, eh?” grunted Goober.

“Exactly. And,” bitterly, “as a mark of gratitude, I suppose, dad gave Sands a half interest in the Star A cattle outfit.”

“I heard about that,” Goober put in. “He must like Sands.”

“It would seem that way. They’ve not only branded me as a murderer, but they are trying to prevent my marrying Juana Diaz.”

“You wouldn’t marry her, with that hangin’ over yuh, anyway,” said Goober.

“Not if I thought for a minute I was guilty.”

“Yuh can’t prove yore innocence.”

“That is true,” Hal said bitterly. “But men who will lie about one thing will lie about another. The sheriff said Jigger Slade and I were both drunk and quarrelling.”

“Weren’t yuh?”

“I was drunk; I’ll admit that. But no man ever saw me quarrelsome when I’m drunk. I’ve never found any fighting whisky yet. But they overlooked one thing in their lies, Glendon—Slade never drank.”

“He didn’t?” Goober was keenly interested.

“Not a drop. Every time we bought a drink, Slade took a cigar. Ask any of the bartenders about it, and they’ll tell you Slade never drank.”

“That makes it kinda funny.”

“It does!” affirmed Hal.

“Was yore mother and sister comin’ down to Indian Wells to see you to-day?” Goober asked after a brief pause.

“Yes. You see, Mrs. Diaz said she would consent to Juana’s marrying me, if I got my father’s consent to the match. I knew I couldn’t get that. Dad is poison on a white person marrying a Mexican. You see, I hadn’t been out to the ranch to see mother and Betty; so I went out there and had a talk with them about it. Mother was dead against it, but she was willing to go to Indian Wells to meet Juana and her mother, and to talk things over.

“Dad came to the ranch, while I was there, and he almost exploded over their going to Indian Wells. He bawled me out plenty. You see, I told mother and Betty about the shooting in Silver Bar; so I had nothing to conceal. Dad was mad about that. He said I shouldn’t have told them. He tried to talk them out of coming to Indian Wells. I only wish he had. It is all my fault!”

“Forget that part,” advised Goober soothingly. “Didja know Terrill?”

“The—oh, I knew who he was, and I’ve seen him around Silver Bar.”

“Did he ever come over to the Star A?”

“Not while I was there. He was murdered, wasn’t he? I heard about it in Indian Wells.”

“Where was Jigger Slade from?”

“Northern Wyoming, he said.”

“Did he ever mention San Francisco?”

“No, I don’t believe he ever was down there.”

“Nobody ever said he might be a cattle detective, did they?”

“Why, no; was he?” Hal asked.

“I dunno. You know, yore father had the body shipped back to ’Frisco.”

“I didn’t know that. Could he have been a detective, I wonder? Do you suppose he was, and that he wanted to meet that train—to meet dad?”

“The Star A has lost quite a lot of cattle and horses, I understand.”

“Sands said they had—lost some.”

“Well, you quit worryin’. Keep yore ears and eyes open. Everything will be all right, kid; jist set tight.”

Frank Austin and Cal Sands rode slowly back toward Keno City. Austin was positive that the women were being held for ransom, but Sands had little to say about it.

“Too bad about poor Riecho,” said Austin sadly. “Do you suppose the same men tried to kill Glendon, Cal?”

“It’s likely,” growled Sands.

“For a while I was afraid Dave and Hank had double crossed us,” said Austin.

“They wouldn’t.”

Austin hadn’t seen the two men. Sands had ridden up the mouth of the cañon and told them about what had happened, and rejoined Austin further down the road.

“They heard the shots, eh?” asked Austin.

“Sure. It worried them a lot. They’re probably back at the ranch now. I told ’em to cut a wide circle and dodge everybody, ’cause it might be hard for them to explain bein’ down that far at that time.”

“That’s true. What about that cheque I gave Riecho? If the sheriff finds it, he might wonder about my giving him that much money.”

“Pete La Plante is not a detective, Frank; don’t worry about that. If he asks about it, which he won’t, we can say you paid off yore losses in a poker game.”

“That’s a good alibi,” Austin said thoughtfully. “I told all three of them to be sure and cash the cheques in Silver Bar. They wouldn’t question my cheques.”

“Don’t worry about that part of it; and those boys won’t talk.”

“I hope not, Cal.”

“I know ’em pretty well. To-morrow you stay at the ranch, in case any word is brought in. I’ll take the two boys and investigate a few places back in the hills around Silver Bar. Later they can get those cheques cashed in Silver Bar.”

“All right; that might be a good scheme. But why not take the sheriff with you?”

“Don’t need him, Frank. Three of us can handle anythin’ that might come up.”

“Well,” dubiously, “go careful, Cal. We can’t take any chances on the kidnappers injuring my wife and daughter. They might, you know, if they saw that the game was all up with them.”

“I’ll handle all that, Frank.”

“I know you will,” sighed Austin. “If I didn’t think I could trust you, I’d never have made you my partner.”

Goober and Johnny browsed around Indian Wells until late in the evening, and rode back to Keno City. They did not see Hal after he had talked with Juana and her mother, but Hal’s story had given Goober plenty of food for thought. Keno City was excited over the killing and the disappearance of the two women, but Goober and Johnny arrived too late to hear much of the talk, and they left town again early in the morning. Goober showed Johnny the diamond ring and told him about the cheque.

“It’s a cinch that Tony Riecho was one of the two men who held up the stage that mornin’ and robbed the women—but what was the cheque for?” Goober puzzled. “This case grows angles every day.”

“Are yuh goin’ to give the ring to the sheriff?” asked Johnny.

“Might as well, I suppose—but not yet.”

They were out where the road forked to the 7 Bar 7 early that morning, and rode on to a point where they could watch the old ranch house. They tied their horses out of sight and sprawled on a rocky point, not more than three hundred yards from the ranch house. Smoke poured from the stovepipe in the kitchen, indicating that some one was preparing breakfast. About fifteen minutes after they began their vigil, two men came from the rear of the house and went down to the stable.

“That would be Shafer and Blewett,” said Goober. “Wish I had a pair of glasses.”

Ten minutes later the two 7 Bar 7 hands rode away from the ranch, going north; and as soon as they went out of sight Goober and Johnny went down and investigated the house, which was unlocked. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, they got on their horses and rode north.

“Do yuh figure these two men know anythin’ about the women?” queried Johnny, as they skirted along the side of a swale and headed for higher ground.

“Yuh can’t overlook any bets,” replied Goober. “I don’t like the looks of this outfit. Terrill was a sure enough crook, and he never worked with honest men. He—oho! Set still!”

A lone horseman was cutting along the side of a hill above them, too far away for them to identify him. He was also working north. They let him top the hill and disappear, before they continued.

“That’s three ahead of us,” mused Goober aloud.

“What’s yore main idea of follerin’ ’em?” queried Johnny.

“Suspicion. Terrill was too crooked to hire anybody except crooks. With Terrill dead, why would these two cow-pokes keep on workin’? Nobody to pay salaries. Where’d they be goin’ this early in the mornin’? Mebbe I’m loco, but I’d like to make a bet that they’re not on an honest job.”

“What about this third person, Goober?”

“He can be one of three things; one of their gang, trying to catch up with ’em; somebody trailin’ ’em, like we are; or some ordinary puncher, ridin’ about his business. Anyway, we’ll mosey along and see what we can see. Keep yore eyes open, pardner, and remember that they’ve tried twice to tear the end off my earthly envelope.”

“Do yuh still think Terrill shot yuh in the belt-buckle?”

Goober laughed shortly. “I’ll give him credit, until I find a better candidate.”

They kept on over the hill, watching closely. It was unfamiliar country to both of them. The hills were higher over here, the cañons deeper, than over around Keno City. Most of the way they were obliged to stay on the ridges but finally struck a sloping mesa, through which angled a fairly wide cañon which seemed to open wide on the flatter range a couple of miles to the eastward. From there they struck the cañon rim where they were able to follow its course in that direction.

The sides were nearly perpendicular, possibly a hundred and fifty feet deep at this point, but seemed to deepen farther on. They rode along this rim for about a mile, until they came to an abrupt angle, where the cañon ran south-west, apparently sprangling out in several smaller cañons. Goober dismounted and stepped over to the rim, where he squatted on his heels and looked things over.

“She’s a box cañon with a blind end,” he told Johnny. “Looks as though there’s a sheer drop of a hundred feet or so below the junction of all them little cañons. Yuh can’t see much of the cañon below here on account of the trees.” He came back and mounted his horse.

“We’ll circle the heads of these little cañons and come back on the other side. There’s a clear rim over across there and no trees.”

“Do yuh reckon them fellers would go into a blind cañon?” asked Johnny.

“I dunno about that. This hill slopes all the way back to the main range, and I don’t believe they headed up there. We can swing back along the other rim, and if we don’t find a place to cross, we can foller her down to the flat range and head for Silver Bar from there.”

Johnny nodded, and they began cutting around the heads of the brushy little cañons, following an age-old cattle trail. There were no horse tracks in the trail. They were obliged to take a much longer circle than they had thought necessary, due to a deep erosion caused by a cloudburst at some remote time, and it was nearly an hour later when they reached the rim opposite the place where they had decided to make the circle.

Dismounting some distance from the rim, they walked out carefully to the edge and knelt down. It was at least three hundred feet to the bottom of the cañon, almost a sheer drop, and they were almost over its blind end.

Both men grunted simultaneously. Not over two hundred yards down the cañon from the blind end, concealed entirely from any one on the west rim, and probably from any place on the east rim, except the very spot where Goober and Johnny were crouched, was a rather large pole corral, built in against the west wall, and in the corral were thirty or forty horses. Coming up the bottom of the cañon were the two horsemen who had left the 7 Bar 7 ranch house that morning. Goober and Johnny instinctively drew back from the rim, realising that they were silhouetted against the sky for any one down in the cañon at that distance. They sprawled flat on the edge, hats off.

The two horsemen came on to the corral, where they dismounted, climbed up on the fence, where they humped together, apparently looking at the horses.

“What do yuh make of it?” asked Johnny. Goober grinned and again expressed the wish that he had a pair of binoculars. “Betcha forty dollars that them are Star A horses,” he said. “What a place to hold stolen stock! See that green stuff. Betcha there’s plenty water right in the corral. Two men could let ’em out to feed in the cañon, and never lose a horse. What a place!”

“Here comes the third man,” said Johnny. “Look away down the cañon, where yuh see that big bunch of willers. He’s headin’ this way.”

“I can see him now. Betcha he’s one of the gang, or he wouldn’t be comin’ along so bold. I tell yuh we’ve——”

Goober’s remark was broken off abruptly, when the stillness was shattered by the echoing crash of a rifle shot, magnified many times, and flung back and forth from the cañon walls until it sounded like a dozen shots.

One of the men pitched forward off the corral fence, his foot catching between the poles, where he hung suspended by one leg. The other one jumped down, sprang for his horse and tried to mount. The shots and their echoes were coming in a continuous roar now. The horse went down, throwing the man to his knees.

He was up, staggering around, trying to fight his way along the fence; trying to reach the cover of the brush. And then it seemed that a whole volley struck him at once, spinning him around, crashing him against the fence; and he went down in a limp huddle.

“Gawd’s sake!” blurted Johnny. “Both of ’em riddled. They’re bein’ sure the one hangin’ on the fence is dead. Them shooters ain’t more’n a couple hundred yards below us,” he added hoarsely. “Down there along this same rim. If they come this way, they can’t miss seein’ us.”

“That’s right. C’mon.”

They scuttled back toward their horses and dropped in behind a clump of brush and rocks.

“We’re close enough to the horses now for six-gun work,” grunted Goober.

They had been there about ten minutes, when from far down the cañon came the echo-rousing report of another shot. They held their position for possibly another fifteen minutes, before they went back to their horses. Riding cautiously along the rim, they found the spot from which the shots had been fired. It was almost directly above the corral. Goober picked up a dozen empty 30-30 cartridges and put them in his pocket.

They sat there a while, but finally retraced their way around to the west side again. This time they kept in closer to the rim, watching for a trail which might lead to the bottom of the cañon. They found it about a hundred yards below where they had first come to the rim; a trail so well concealed that they might have passed it, except that Goober’s horse swung his head toward the rim, snorted explosively and stepped aside.

“Another dead man!” exclaimed Goober, checking his horse quickly.

They both dismounted, after making a complete scrutiny of the surrounding country. The man was lying on his face, almost concealed in some tiny jackpines on the rim. Within ten feet of him was the top of a trail, which led down the side of the cañon, masked by a few larger jackpines.

Goober turned the man over and grunted with surprise. It was Nolan, the sheriff of Silver Bar, and a gory stain just above the left-hand pocket of his faded shirt told the story. It had been a dead-centre shot, probably fired by a concealed assailant, as Nolan topped the rim of the cañon. In Nolan’s hip pocket was a huge red handkerchief, which Goober hung flag-like on the top of the tallest jackpine.

CHAPTER XVI
“Coincidence Poker”

“We’ll go to Silver Bar and tell ’em they’re short one sheriff,” said Goober. “And when we go back to Keno City, we can leave word for the Star A to have a look at them horses. I know I’m not goin’ to take a chance on goin’ down in that cañon to turn ’em loose. Life is too sweet to me to go monkeyin’ with them kind of killers—and us with six-guns.”

“Nolan must have been trailin’ ’em,” said Johnny.

“Mm-m-m? Do yuh know, Johnny, sometimes I’m disappointed in you.”

“What do yuh mean?”

“Do a little thinkin’. Them 7 Bar 7 fellers down at the corral must have been rustlers. Nolan bored straight for here, went down the hill. I figure he had a hunch that the other two hadn’t got here yet; so Nolan waited down there a while. After a wait he went on, not sneakin’, jist travellin’. When the shootin’ started he high-tails it out of here and meets one of the other gang at the top of the cañon.”

“Yuh figure Nolan a horse-thief, eh? All right, Goober; but who shot ’em?”

“Yore guess would be as good as mine.”

“Hijackers?”

“Not a bad theory, Johnny; but one I never thought about. Anyway, mebbe I can answer that one, after we get to Silver.”

They stopped again at the 7 Bar 7 and searched the house, stable and all the sheds, but found nothing of interest. About a hundred yards from the rear of the house was a scraggly old oak, on which had been nailed a rough wooden target, about three feet square. It had been pretty well shot to pieces, indicating that the men of the 7 Bar 7 were in the habit of doing considerable rifle practice.

Scattered around on the ground were dozens of empty cartridge shells of different calibres, and a great many empty revolver shells. Goober made a collection of the 30-30 shells and sat down in the shade to examine them. It is seldom that any two rifles leave the same firing pin marks, and half of those he had found on the cañon rim were very distinctive, as the pin had not struck the primer near the centre.

The shells found at the house were all discoloured, as though they had lain out in the weather a long time, and two of them matched the fresh shells exactly. Goober showed them to Johnny, who found another one, trampled into the dirt; one which had apparently been shot months previous to this time.

“That don’t prove anythin’,” said Johnny sceptically.

“Mebbe not, pardner; but smaller things than that have dislocated men’s necks,” replied Goober, pocketing the shells. “Big oaks from little acorns grow. Didn’t yuh learn that in school?”

“Nope,” grinned Johnny. “I was always at the foot of the class.”

“So was I,” seriously. “It used to bother me, until I discovered that they taught both ends the same thing. Let’s go over and see Silver Bar.”

It was noon when they rode into Silver Bar, without meeting anybody. They went straight to the courthouse and found Ed Chandler, the prosecuting attorney, and told him the story. Chandler did not get excited. He made a few notes on their story, asked a number of pointed questions as to the location of the bodies, and went out to find the coroner.

“I’ll want you at the inquest,” he told them. “Will you be here?”

“Here or in Keno City,” replied Goober, and Chandler thanked him.

Goober and Johnny walked back up the street and stopped at the bank, where Ed Cates, the banker, greeted them cordially. “I was just wonderin’ what became of you two,” smiled that ex-cowboy.

“Oh, we’ve been foolin’ around the country,” laughed Goober.

“Over around Keno City?” Cates asked.

“Yeah—there and Indian Wells.”

“How’s our old friend Austin, Goober? Remembered you yet?”

“Well, he ain’t took me to his bosom, Ed; and I don’t expect he will.”

Cates laughed softly. “No, I don’t expect he will. Sands, his foreman, was in here a while ago.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. He tells me he’s half owner of the Star A outfit now.”

“I heard he was. Do they do their bankin’ over here, Ed?”

“No, they don’t. Sands had a couple cheques to cash. He said the boys kinda cleaned up on Austin in a poker game the other night. The cheques were made out to—uh—Britton and Elkinson for two hundred and fifty apiece.”

“That’s a good clean-up for a couple of punchers,” grinned Goober.

“Six months’ wages.”

“Y’betcha. I suppose Sands told yuh what happened to Mrs. Austin and her daughter.”

“Why, no, he never told me anything about them. What happened?”

Goober related what he knew about it, and Cates gasped indignantly.

“Why, that’s a damnable thing to do, Goober, I tell you it’s time we had a clean-up around here. Things are getting worse all the time. Somebody tried to murder you, and they did murder Terrill. We need a new set of peace officers.”

“You’ll probably get ’em, Ed. Yuh see, Nolan was killed this mornin’.”

“Great Scott! Nolan dead?”

“Plenty dead,” and Goober related the shooting to Cates.

They left Cates wondering what it was all about, and sauntered down to the depot. Just below the depot, about three hundred yards, were the corrals and loading-chute, where a number of cattle cars were spotted on a side-track. Goober led the way up to the ticket window of the little depot, where a tired-looking agent was tilted against his desk, reading a newspaper. He looked up at them, but did not offer to come to the window.

“How many of them cars are for the 7 Bar 7?” asked Goober.

“All of ’em,” he replied peevishly. “And I wish they’d start loadin’. If they don’t load by to-night, they’ll have to pay demurrage.”

“Thank yuh,” said Goober.

“I reckon the railroad will have to cancel that demurrage,” grinned Goober. “Or send a collector with an asbestos bill to git the money.”

It required several hours to assemble the Silver Bar officials and make the trip out to the blind cañon, but they found things as represented by Goober and Johnny, except that there were no horses in the hidden corral, nor could they find any in the cañon. Both Shafer and Blewett were riddled with bullets, killed on the spot. One horse was dead, and the other near the corral, the reins tangled in the brush. They packed the bodies out to the 7 Bar 7 ranch, where they were loaded in a wagon and taken back to Silver Bar.

“I’ll betcha I know what happened. Some of them Flask River punchers knowed that the 7 Bar 7 was stealin’ horses and keepin’ ’em in the hidden corral in that blind cañon; so they hijacked the whole works, after they wiped out the 7 Bar 7.”

Thus Smoky Hill, deputy sheriff of Keno City, tilted against the wall in an office chair, hugging his knees, talking to Pete La Plante. The sheriff himself was humped in his desk chair, trying to dig a broken broom-straw from the stem of his old pipe. Finally Pete flung the pipe aside and reached for a cigarette paper.

“You dunno a damn thing about it,” the sheriff declared.

“Mebbe you do?” Smoky retorted.

“Yea-a-ah—and maybe I don’t. All we’re reasonably sure of is that the 7 Bar 7 was stealin’ horses, but we don’t know whose horses, because there wasn’t no horses in the corral nor cañon when them fellers went in to git the bodies.”

“Uh-huh.” Smoky scratched his neck thoughtfully, one eye squinted at the sheriff. “What about Nolan?”

“They got him cold—thasall.”

“Shore—that’s plenty true. But what I’d like to know is how in hell them fellers ever disposed of the horses, unless they relayed ’em out through the Flask River country. Still yuh can’t imagine that because there ain’t no market out thataway. Now, if Nolan——”

“I wish you’d quit worryin’ about what happened in another county, and do a little worryin’ about what has happened around here, Smoky. Every time I get set to do a little thinkin’ you allus bother me.”

“You—uh—say! Pete, do you mean to set there and tell me that you are goin’ to think? Why, I wouldn’t be more s’prised if I saw a burro tryin’ to lay an aig. But go ahead. All I ask is to set here and see what yuh look like in the face.”

The sheriff glared indignantly.

“You ain’t thinkin’,” charged Smoky.

“The hell I ain’t! If you knowed what I’m thinkin’, you’d git to hell out of here and never come back.”

“Thasso? If I thought for a minute that my ability wasn’t appreciated, I’d——”

“You’d what?” Pete demanded.

“I’d be s’prised at yore ignorance, that’s what I’d be.”

“Will you git out of here, Smoky? Will yuh? I don’t want yore blood on my head, but——”

“What do yuh figger on doin’—buttin’ me in the nose? That’s the only way you’ll ever git my blood on yore head. And while yo’re buttin’, I’ll—— Hello, Goober.”

“Howdy,” grinned Goober from the doorway. “How are yuh?”

“I’m all right,” replied Smoky. “Pete’s thinkin’.”

“Was tryin’ to think,” corrected the little sheriff dryly.

“Close enough,” Smoky agreed. “Now we’ll git some straight talk on this killin’ over in the Silver Bar country. The stage driver heard some of it and guessed at the rest. And he ain’t a awful good guesser, if yuh ask me for an opinion.”

“I’ve never knowed you to have to be asked,” muttered the sheriff.

“What news on the missin’ women?” asked Goober. The sheriff shook his head sadly.

“I seen Austin and Sands jist ride in,” offered Goober.

“Pretty tough on Austin,” said the sheriff.

Smoky started to say something, but stopped as Austin himself came in. He looked years older, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, unshaved.

“What’s new?” asked the sheriff.

“Not a thing—no word of any kind. Have you heard anything?” asked the Star A owner.

“Nothin’, except the trouble over at the 7 Bar 7,” Pete said.

“What was that?” Austin demanded.

The sheriff explained about the triple killing, and as he was talking, Cal Sands came in. He had heard about it at one of the stores.

“What do yuh know about the murder of Nolan?” Sands asked the sheriff.

“I was jist tellin’ Austin what we heard,” replied La Plante, and repeated the story. Sands turned to Goober.

“I understand you saw some of this, Glendon?”

“Yeah, we saw some of it—me and Johnny.”

“How did you happen to be over there at the blind cañon?” Sands snapped.

“Lookin’,” replied Goober shortly.

“Oh!”

“Did you see any of the men who did the shooting?” asked Austin.

“No, we didn’t.”

The sheriff reached in a desk drawer and took out the cheque he had found on Riecho’s body. Austin’s lips tightened for a moment as he looked at it.

“I—I lost in a poker game,” he said. “Paid in cheque, you know.”

It satisfied the sheriff.

“Queer kind of a game yuh play out there,” said Goober. Sands turned.

“What do yuh mean, Glendon?”

“Cow-punchers winnin’ two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Anythin’ queer about that?” Sands demanded.

“I’d call it coincidence poker.”

“Coincidence? I don’t foller yuh, Glendon.”

“No-o-o-o? Seven hundred and fifty dollars, split three ways.”

“I think we better be going along, Cal,” said Austin nervously. “There may be some news in Indian Wells.” Sands nodded. He, too, wanted an excuse to get out of that office.

“If I hear anythin’, I’ll let yuh know right away,” said the sheriff.

“Thank yuh, Pete,” replied Sands, and followed Austin out of the office.

“Now, what’s all this talk about coincidence poker?” demanded the sheriff.

Goober laughed softly. “I dunno, Pete. Didja see Austin flinch?”

“I did,” said Smoky.

“You would,” grunted the sheriff. “But what was it all about?”

“Search me,” grinned Goober. “When Riecho was killed, he had that cheque for two hundred and fifty on him. Yesterday Cal Sands cashed two cheques for the same amount at the Silver Bar Bank, drawn in favour of Elkinson and Britton.”

“Each one of ’em had a cheque for two hundred and fifty?” asked Smoky.

“That’s right. And Cal Sands told Ed Cates, the banker at Silver Bar, that they were gamblin’ cheques. Mebbe it’s all right—but I calls it coincidence poker.”

“What’s the answer?” queried the sheriff.

Goober shrugged his shoulders. “I wish I knew, Pete.”

“So do I. Glendon, this here kidnappin’ don’t look right to me. If I was a married man, and somethin’ like that happened to my wife, I’d shore—well, I wouldn’t take it the way Austin does.”

“I’ve knowed men who would almost pay to git their wife stole,” said Smoky.

“You never knowed any such a damn thing!” snorted Pete. “Why say things like that? Sometimes yuh make me mad—talkin’ foolish thataway.”

A slow smile overspread Goober’s face, and he got slowly to his feet. “Well, I reckon I’ll go and wrap m’ insides around a fried aig,” he told them. “See yuh later.”

CHAPTER XVII
Mendez Shows His Teeth

Austin and Sands were riding out of town, heading for Indian Wells. Austin cast a worried glance at the old cowboy as they rode past Goober.

“Damn nosey old rat!” snorted Sands angrily.

“I don’t see how he found out about those other two cheques,” said Austin despondently. “Oh, I was a fool to pay them in cheques. Why didn’t I draw the cash and pay them in money?”

“No use cryin’ over spilled milk,” retorted Sands. “But let ’em think what they please about the cheques. They can’t prove anythin’. That damn Cates told Glendon about it. I told him that the two boys nicked yuh in a poker game. That’s all right. Next time I git a chance, I’ll shore tell Mr. Cates a few things about bankers that talk out of turn.”

But this did not seem to reassure Austin, whose nerves were frayed. He struck his fist on the saddle horn and cursed the day he ever came back to Arizona. “I’d almost bet that Rosita is behind this,” he said, when his anger had cooled sufficiently to enable him to make a coherent statement.

“She might,” agreed Sands. “Of course, she hasn’t any love for you.”

“Why should she? Oh, I’m not trying to excuse myself. I did her the worst injury possible when I deserted her—left her flat, without a cent—and a baby coming. But why not injure me personally, instead of striking at me through my wife and daughter? They never harmed her.”

“Mexican idea,” said Sands. “She knows you’ve got money, and she knows that the longer she holds off, the more you’ll pay.”

“Then you think she’s at the bottom of it, Cal?” said Austin eagerly.

“It was your idea. I said it was possible.”

“I’ll see her the minute we——”

“Use a little sense,” warned Sands. “Let her make the first move.”

“Maybe you’re right; you always are. I’ll let her make the first move. But if I could only know that Laura and Betty are all right!”

“So would I,” truthfully admitted Sands.

As they rode into Indian Wells, Porfiro Mendez was at his favourite pastime. In a mean little patio behind a small cantina, its rear exit opening into an ill-smelling alley, were Mendez and about twenty-five of his countrymen. They were all seated or kneeling on the hard-packed ground, crowded closely together around an open spot about six feet square. Just now the space was unoccupied. On one side of the circle was a wide-hatted Mexican, boasting a long, villainous moustache and a new serape. In both hands he held a gamecock, almost denuded of feathers, its skinny neck jerking this way and that way, bill half-opened, as though searching for what it might devour.

On the opposite side was Mendez, a reddish-coloured rooster held between his knees, while he jangled a handful of silver pesos between his palms. “Cinco á dos,” he chanted. “Cinco á dos.”

Mendez was offering to wager five to two on his rooster. But the gambling element was cautious. Mendez had never exhibited this rooster before, having brought it from Piñon. Still, the local gamecock was famous, having won many a battle in that cantina patio. Neither bird wore steel spurs; they were as nature intended them.

“Cinco á dos. Cinco á dos.”

The odds were attractive. A thin-faced Mexican tossed two pesos in the ring, and they were immediately covered by Mendez. Another and another threw their money in, until Mendez was obliged to dig deeply in his pockets. With all bets made, the crowd moved back a few inches, and with a quick flip of their hands, the men tossed the roosters into the cleared space.

It was as though two bunches of feather dynamite had exploded. There was no sparring, no feeling out of each other. Feathers flew under the rip of spurs, as they crashed in mid-air. And then something happened. One of the birds bolted to the top of a wide hat, gave a convulsive squawk and launched itself to the top of the patio wall just to the left of the exit. It was Mendez’s very red rooster, its neck almost bare of feathers—disqualified. In the parlance of the prize-ring, it was a technical knock-out.

“Escamillo!” roared Mendez. “Son of a crow!” And before anybody could move, Mendez whipped out a heavy Colt gun, and the bullet seemed to hit the luckless gamecock dead centre. At any rate it blew Escamillo straight out from the wall. There came a few moments of dead silence. The other rooster was safely in its owner’s hands, the money still on the ground, flashing back the rays of the sun, when Ricardo Gonzales came staggering in through the open patio gate. His face was bloody, and a long reddish feather seemed to have caught in one corner of his mouth.

“Madre de Dios!” roared Mendez. “Did you get hit, fool?”

Ricardo assumed an injured air, felt of the knife inside his sash, and answered in his very best English: “Somebody hit me on this face weeth damn died cheecken.”

There was a general laugh, and the winners began picking up their money. Ricardo wiped a sleeve across his face and looked meaningly at Mendez, who turned to the crowd.

“Next time I shall bring an eagle—not a crow, like Escamillo,” he said humbly. He led the way and Ricardo followed him into the cantina.

“Señor Austin arrived,” said Ricardo.

“Alone?”

“With Señor Sands.”

Mendez nodded, gave Ricardo one of his few remaining pesos, and went out to the street, while Ricardo went back to wager his silver on the next main. Sands was talking with a Mexican merchant across the street, and as there was no sign of Frank Austin, Mendez guessed rightly that the wealthy cattleman was over at the Casa del Diaz.

Mendez smiled at his good fortune in finding Austin there alone. There was no one else in the place, except the Indian cook. Austin was seated at one of the little tables, waiting for Sands, who had stopped to talk a little with Mexicans he knew who might have a little information.

Mendez bowed graciously and smiled at Austin, who regarded him coldly.

“Thees ees a pleasure,” sighed Mendez, taking the vacant chair.

“What do you want?” asked Austin coldly.

“Who knows, until we talk?” smiled Mendez.

“Eh?”

“To talk ees to unnerstand,” smiled Mendez. “I’m unnerstand many theengs.”

“Damn your understanding,” growled Austin.

Mendez grew sober, shrugged his shoulders. With Austin in his present mood, Mendez decided to come to the point. There was no friendship between them. “You do not spik español?” queried Mendez.

“No.”

“Too bad. I do not spik Englis’ so good. But we mus’ unnerstand each other. Now”—Mendez leaned closer across the table; he had been eating much garlic, so Austin leaned back—“now, I’m tell you w’at I know, Señor Austin. One time, long time ago, we marry two seester. Your wife ees name’ Rosita—thees daughter from you ees name’ Juana.”

“Damn you!” snarled Austin. “What is this to you?”

Mendez laughed deep in his thick throat. “Your son ees weesh to marry wit’ Juana, eh? Your wife don’ know thees Juana ees your daughter. Suppose I’m tell thees thing to your wife.”

Austin got to his feet, his jaw shut tightly, his eyes blazing. Mendez stood up.

“You damned blackmailer!” rasped Austin.

Mendez shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “To me thees thing make no difference. I’m love thees Juana—me, myself. You don’t care, eh? All right, I go tell your son. I tell heem that he can not marry weeth this girl, biccause she ees his ’alf-seester.”

“No,” said Austin hoarsely. “Don’t do that. Damn you, how much do you want?”

Mendez smiled slowly, feeling that he had won his point. How much? He was at a loss to know just what to ask. Then: “The price ees twenty thousand dollar—American gold.”

“Twenty thousand!”

“Twenty thousand—now.”

Austin moved closer. “Too high, Mendez; much too high.”

Mendez laughed softly. “Too ’igh, eh? Twenty-five thousand now, señor.”

Mendez had his hands down, totally unprepared, when Austin’s right fist, backed by every ounce of the big man’s body behind it, caught Mendez square on the mouth. The blow would have staggered a steer. Mendez went down in a heap against the wall, blood soaking his moustache from a badly cut lip.

For several moments Austin stood over him, both hands clenched, but Mendez made no move to get up. Slowly the big cattleman relaxed. His right hand was bleeding from contact with Mendez’s teeth, and he wrapped it in a handkerchief as he walked out of the place. Mendez, dazed and badly cut about the mouth, did not move for several moments after Austin had left the patio, and then he merely lifted himself on one elbow.

“Está la vida!” screamed a parrot.

Mendez felt tenderly of his cut lips, lifted his eyes and saw Rosita at the table, looking down at him. Her expression was harsh, and her eyes seemed to bore into his soul. He got slowly to his feet, groping at the wall. Rosita handed him his big sombrero, and pointed toward the front entrance.

“I heard what was said,” she told him in Spanish. “Leave this place and never return, Porfiro. A man who would take money for silence is worse than one who steals. Go!”

“You say this to me?” Mendez grinned wickedly with bleeding lips. “You fear I may take all his money, leaving none for you. You call me worse than a thief, eh? Me, Porfiro Mendez! You shall both pay. Caramba, such treatment for me!”

Mendez stumbled from the Casa del Diaz, mopping his lips and muttering curses. He saw Austin and Sands together on the street, but he did not give them a second glance. Ricardo stepped out of the cantina and met Mendez, stopped short at sight of his master.

“Dios, what ’appen to you?” he asked.

Mendez mopped his lips as his hands fumbled with the tie rope of his horse, but he did not reply. As he swung into his saddle, Sands started across the street.

“Wait a minute, Mendez!” he called.

Mendez turned his head and looked full at Sands. “Go from hell, will you?” he snarled, and galloped down the street.

Sands went back to Austin and shook his head sadly.

“Bad break on yore part, Frank.”

“Perhaps it was, but I’ll not let any damned Mexican blackmail me. Why, he had the unlimited gall to ask twenty-five thousand; so I just knocked half of his teeth out.”

“Might be expensive dentistry.”

“Do you think for a minute that I’d pay him that much?”

“That ain’t the point. You should take it under advisement. You could drag out the negotiations for weeks. In the meantime, all this might be straightened out, the women back in San Francisco. Now, you’ve got an enemy—and a damn bad one. Mendez is a bad hombre, Frank. Oh, I don’t like him any better than you do, but right now we can’t afford to make enemies.”

“I won’t be blackmailed—damned if I will!”

Sands shrugged his shoulders. “You know your own business.”

“I wonder where Hal is?”

“Did you ask about him at the Casa?” Sands asked.

“Nobody there except the cook—until Mendez showed up.”

“Maybe we can find him around town. You didn’t see Rosita?”

“I told you there wasn’t anybody there!” Austin snapped in irritation.

“That’s right, Frank. Well, I dunno what good we can do here. I wish I’d had a chance to talk with Mendez. I had an idea of offering him a good price to see if Mrs. Austin and Betty might not be in Mexico.”

“Do you suppose he’d go and tell Hal that—that Juana is his sister?”

“Might. He’s mad enough. Still, he knows that would ruin any chance he might have to collect from you. No, I don’t believe he will. Mendez is not exactly a fool.”

“I’ve a good notion to go down to Piñon and——”

“Forget that,” interrupted Sands. “Mendez is the big guy in Piñon. What he’d do to you would be plenty. You want to stop and remember that when you cross that line, you haven’t any U. S. A. backin’ yuh. All that would be left would be a memory of a danged fool that went where he wasn’t wanted.

“Not that Mendez wouldn’t welcome yuh. He’d probably turn out the Chamber of Commerce, or whatever passes for such things down there, and greet yuh. He might hand yuh the key to the city—and then use it to lock yuh in their pet hoosegow. I may be all wrong, but I feel that Mendez is a jigger that believes in ojo por ojo y diente por diente; meanin’ ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ Only he might take a few extra teeth for good measure.”

Austin nodded gloomily. But an instant later he brightened as he saw Hal ride into town.

“You better talk with him alone,” suggested Sands.

Austin nodded and strode up the street to the little stable where Hal kept his horse. They met at the doorway. “Any news?” asked Austin anxiously. Hal shook his head gloomily.

“We haven’t heard a thing,” sighed Austin. “I felt sure some of us would hear something by to-day.”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Hal. “I laid awake all last night, trying to puzzle out some reason for it, and the only reason I could find was that somebody prevented mother and Betty from meeting Mrs. Diaz and Juana.”

“Why would they?” queried Austin cautiously.

“If you don’t know—I’m sure I don’t, dad.”

“Do you mean to—why, Hal, you don’t mean that I had any——”

“I’m not accusing anybody,” his son said doggedly. “But you didn’t want them to meet. You’ll have to admit that part of it.”

“But that—that was merely because I didn’t want you to marry this girl. I was afraid your mother and Betty might be influenced by meeting them.”

Hal laughed bitterly. “You came here to stop me from marrying her. Well, I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Then you’re not going to marry her, Hal?”

“So you don’t know anything about it, eh?”

“About what?”

The lines on Hal’s face deepened, eyes half-shut, as he looked at his father. He had come to that country a young, smooth-cheeked young man; now he was years older, hard-faced, bitter. Perhaps dissipation had caused some of it.

“You say you don’t know anything about it,” Hal said evenly. “I’ve got to accept your word for that.”

“Hal, I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what you don’t know; Juana disappeared last night. She never slept in her bed, and no one knows where she went.”

“No!”

“I’ve been looking for her—looking all around.” Hal shook his head wearily.

“You haven’t notified the sheriff or——”

“What’s the good of that? Rosita didn’t want me to—I mean Mrs. Diaz; everybody calls her Rosita.”

“Isn’t she worried?”

“Not outside. She’s wonderful,” Hal said.

“Does she suspect any one?”

“Who knows?”

“What are you going to do now?” asked Austin.

“Do? What can any one do?”

“Come back to the ranch with us, Hal. Bury the hatchet with Sands. He is willing to be friends—forget everything. We’ve got to stick together in this, son. I’m half crazy over it.”

Hal shook his head. “No, I can’t do that. With you—yes; but not with Sands.”

Austin sighed and looked gloomily at Hal. “I suppose you heard that Nolan, the sheriff, and those two men of the 7 Bar 7 were killed yesterday.”

“Killed? Who killed them?”

“No one seems to know. It seems there’s a blind cañon north of the 7 Bar 7, where a corral had been built. The two men were shot down at the corral, and Nolan was killed at the top of the trail, just at the rim of the cañon.”

“Rustlers?” Hal asked.

“Except Nolan.”

“Why except Nolan?”

“He was the sheriff!” Austin snorted.

“Accepted money to cover up a—a murder, didn’t he? Is rustling worse than that?”

“Forget that. It’s all past and done. You don’t seem to appreciate the fact that you are not being tried for murder.”

“I suppose I am pretty ungrateful. Still, I’m grateful for one thing.”

“What is that?”

“The fact that mother and Betty believe me innocent.”

“I’m glad they do. But won’t you come back with us?”

“You know why I won’t.”

“Well, I’m sorry. You misjudge Sands badly. Still, you always were stubborn; so I guess there’s no way out, except to leave you here.”

Austin turned on his heel and went back down the street, anxious to tell Sands the latest developments. The tall foreman whistled with astonishment, and his face grew grave. “Mendez,” he said harshly. “I’ll betcha that damned greaser is to blame.”

“Damn him, he wasn’t looking for ransom—he was trying to blackmail me.”

“Mendez is no fool. Do yuh think for a minute he’d ever let you know he kidnapped ’em? If we don’t get word from ’em by to-morrow night, we’ll go down to Piñon. I’ll take Elkinson and Britton, and we’ll whip the whole town.”

“Won’t Mendez be looking for you?”

“Of course he will. Nothing nor nobody ever crosses the line here without Mendez knowing it. He’s got a dozen Yaqui Indians on his staff, and yuh might as well try to dodge death or taxes. But we’ll go, in spite of that.”

They stopped in Keno City, and told the sheriff about Juana’s disappearance. Goober was with the sheriff, and seemed greatly interested in Sands’s narrative. After Sands and Austin went on, Goober talked seriously with La Plante. Apparently the sheriff was ignorant of the fact that Austin had ever been the husband of Rosita Diaz and consequently hadn’t the least suspicion of any reason for the kidnapping.

“I think them women are in Mexico,” said Goober.

“Who in the devil would take ’em to Mexico?”

“Safer than on this side, Pete.”

“Yuh mean that some Americans took ’em across?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Mebbe they paid a Mexican to do it.”

“What white man or white men would do a thing like that?”

“I dunno,” Goober admitted. “You ever been in Piñon?”

“Shore—quite a while ago.”

Goober thought it over a long time. Finally he nodded to himself, saying: “It’s worth tryin’, anyway. Suppose that you and Smoky and Johnny and me slide down across the line about to-morrow night and have a look at Piñon.”

“Hell, I can’t do that,” La Plante protested.

“Not officially; but yuh might leave yore badge at home.”

La Plante shook his head. He didn’t care to mix into any Mexican trouble.

“Suppose,” said Goober, “that them three women are held down there. That is more against the law than the fact of a U. S. sheriff goin’ across lookin’ for ’em. And when all is said and done—what does Piñon amount to? Jist another of them little Mexican villages, more outlaw than law-abidin’. That gaudy old Mendez runs it. What does the law mean to him—even Mexican law? There ain’t even a point of entry to his town.”

“That’s true enough. Half a dozen good shots could take the town.”

“Four,” corrected Goober, grinning. “I’ve done it with one feller.”

“Smoky’d like it.”

“Johnny would love it.”

“Let’s go and git a drink, Goober—I’m pretty dry.”

CHAPTER XVIII
Guarded by Yaquis

The room was about twenty feet long by fifteen feet in width. There was one door of heavy, hand-hewed oak, reinforced crudely with wrought iron, and one window, guarded on the outside with a heavy iron grille, looking out at an unused patio, where the grass grew rank between the flagged walks. Beyond the patio was a blank wall, slowly falling apart from weather and old age. There was one old bed, a crude four-poster, some home-made chairs of oak and rawhide. The bedding was plentiful, but none too clean. In one corner was a small fireplace, and on her knees in front of it was an old, toothless Yaqui squaw, trying in a fumbling way to light a fire.

Seated on the bed was Mrs. Austin, chin in hands, indifferently watching the old squaw, while Betty Austin stood at the window, looking out at the fading light of the old patio. Just inside the door, which was closed, stood a Yaqui Indian, rifle in hand, a perpetual scowl on his ugly countenance.

“There is no use trying to get information from her, mother,” said Betty wearily, without turning her head. “In the first place, I do not believe she understands a word of English, and in the second place——” Betty hesitated for a moment. “In the second place, I do not believe she has a tongue.”

“No tongue? Why, Betty, how in the world——”

Betty turned to the Yaqui warrior, pointed at the old squaw, and asked him: “No lengua?”

The scowl deepened. He ran out his own tongue, slashed at it with the edge of his hand, smiled wickedly, and said: “No tiene lengua.”

“I suppose that is one way of curing a woman of talking too much,” said Betty.

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish, Betty.”

Betty laughed shortly. “I studied Spanish two years, if you remember.”

“So you did. See if that guard will answer any questions.”

Betty turned from the window, started to speak, checked herself. The old squaw shuffled away from the fire, and the guard started to open the door. “Hurry, Betty!” exclaimed her mother.

“No use,” laughed Betty. “All I can think of is, ‘I see the cat. Can you see the cat? The cat has fur.’”

“What cat?”

“Oh, any cat.”

The door closed and the old lock rasped creakingly. The fire made it a little more cheerful, and Betty drew one of the chairs up to the warmth.

“Why doesn’t somebody come and get us?” muttered Mrs. Austin. “It seems ages and ages, a nightmare that never seems to end.”

“If they would only tell us why,” sighed Betty. “Perhaps we have little to complain about. There is plenty of food, such as it is, and we have never been molested.”

“It is a wonder we were not both killed. I shall never forget those plunging horses, the buggy overturning, those shots. I know Mr. Riecho was killed—murdered. I saw his limbs twitching. Oh, I’ll never forget that.”

“Yes, I suppose he was killed, mother. But even in tragedy there is comedy. I shall never forget how you looked when they took that sack off your head. You were as white as a ghost, even your hair—like a marble statue.”

“I do not think it was anything to laugh at. The flour is still in my hair.”

Betty chuckled, and her mother gave her a reproving glance.

“You might at least be serious. Think of our predicament.”

“I have been thinking of it, mother; but what is the good of thinking? We do not know where we are nor what is to be done with us. We are not physically uncomfortable.”

“The optimism of youth,” sighed Mrs. Austin. “Oh, why doesn’t Frank find us? We both look terrible. No change of clothing, no water, not even a hairbrush.”

“And a maid without a tongue,” added Betty. “As for dad’s finding us, I do not suppose he has any idea where we are.”

“But they should do something. Surely the officers——”

“Suppose we are in Mexico. What can the officers do?”

“You don’t suppose we are in Mexico, do you, Betty?”

“I believe we are. Everything points to that fact, mother.”

“But why in Mexico?”

“Goodness only knows; but that is my belief.”

Mrs. Austin started to speak, but a sound at the door made her pause. The huge lock creaked, the door swung open to admit two Yaqui Indians, lugging what seemed to be parts of a bed. A third Yaqui, the scowling one, stepped inside and took his place near the doorway, while the others proceeded to assemble the bed. Finished with that, they went out and brought in blankets.

The guard spoke to them in a mixture of Spanish and Yaqui, and they went out, leaving him on guard, backed against the wall like a statue, his rifle held in the crook of his left elbow.

“It—it begins to look as though we were going to have company,” said Betty a bit fearfully.

Except for the crackling of the fire, the room was silent. Came the shuffle of feet, and a black-garbed figure came in, followed by one of the Yaquis. It was a slender figure, a girl clad in black, a black bandage across her eyes. The Yaqui turned and went out, while the guard stepped over, loosed the bandage, and quickly closed the door behind him.

It was Juana Diaz, blinking around. Betty got to her feet and walked half-way over to her. The light was dim, as the sun had gone down, and the flames flickered on the old adobe walls of the room. Juana stared at Betty, and her eyes strayed to Mrs. Austin on the bed. Slowly Juana came over toward Betty, her dark eyes wide. “You are Hal’s sister?” asked Juana softly.

“Yes, I am Betty Austin.”

“How queer,” said Juana. “And that is Hal’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“I am Juana Diaz.”

“Juana Diaz—from Indian Wells?”

“Yes.”

Juana came over in the stronger light of the fire. She seemed as much at ease as though in her own home.

“You are pretty,” said Mrs. Austin.

“I? Oh, no; I am jus’ Juana Diaz, the Mexican girl.”

Betty was silent. Juana smiled in the fire and sank gracefully down on the shelf of the raised fireplace. “How queer,” she said thoughtfully. “We were to meet in Indian Wells, at my home. But now—we are here, prisoners.”

“Do you know where we are, Juana?” asked Betty.

Juana shrugged her shoulders and looked up at Betty. “I am not sure,” she said slowly, “but I think we are in Piñon. Last night I go to the home of a friend, and when I come home—you see, I always go in back door, and not in front door, which is the cantina—two men grab me. I try to scream, but they put a hand over my mouth, and then they tie my hands and put a cloth in my mouth, and one over my eyes. Ugh! That cloth does not taste good. Then they put me on a horse and bring me—somewhere. Last night I am all alone—all alone to-day. Now I am here.”

“You have seen Hal?” asked Mrs. Austin anxiously.

“Yesterday, Señora Austin.”

“Is he worried about us?”

“Yes, they all worried. Your ’usband is almost crazy.”

“You talked with him?”

“No, señora; I have never been introduced to him.”

“But what is being done to rescue us?”

“What can they do? No one knows where you are.”

“But why are you here, Juana?” asked Betty. “Surely there is a reason.”

“Quién sabe? No one knows the reason. Why am I here? No one told me.”

“You do not know who the men were?”

“Just two men. They did not speak. No one has spoken, except a Yaqui, and he does not talk except to give an order.”

“But what makes you think we are in Piñon?” asked Betty.

“Because this is Mejico—Mexico. I know all this country. Piñon is nearest town in Mexico from Indian Wells, and I know about how long I rode on horse. It was long enough to come to Piñon.”

“Who do you know in Piñon?”

“Well,” Juana laughed softly, “I have an uncle in Piñon. His name is Porfiro Mendez, but they call him Lobo. That means ‘Wolf.’”

“Would he steal you?” asked Mrs. Austin anxiously.

“Porfiro Mendez would steal anything, Señora Austin.”

“Your mother’s brother?”

“No! He married my mother’s sister. They were twins, señora. My mother married a Diaz.”

“Was he a good man?”

“Well”—Juana rubbed her shapely nose with a slim forefinger—“he must have been good to steal so many horses and not get hung.”

Betty laughed outright at Juana’s naïve reply, but her mother seemed a bit shocked. The idea of Hal’s wanting to marry the daughter of a horse thief!

“Where is your father now, Juana?” asked Betty, smiling into the flames.

“Nobody knows. Mother never speaks of him.”

“I should hope not,” said Mrs. Austin.

Juana clasped her slim hands over her knees, smiling at a recollection. “Porfiro Mendez told me about my father,” she said. “Porfiro speaks English very queerly, you know. I asked him about my father, and he said that my mother sent him word that her husband did not treat her well. Porfiro said to me: ‘So I’m come over and I’m say to heem, “Diaz, I’m come for run hell out from you, biccause you not trit Rosita ver’ good.” Thees Diaz scare’ from Porfiro Mendez, and he’s start ronning. I chase heem over top of Yaqui Mountain, and he’s keep on going. Madre de Dios, thees man can ron fas’!’”

The imitation was perfect, and Juana laughed gleefully.

“Is it all true?” asked Mrs. Austin.

Juana sobered quickly. “You have read the story of Jonah and that big feesh, señora?”

“Certainly.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Well I—I suppose we must.”

“Then,” sadly, “you would learn many things from Porfiro Mendez—and believe them.”

“You evidently have little faith in the veracity of your uncle,” laughed Betty.

“Veracity? That means truth? I think he is damn’ liar, señorita.”

“At least you are perfectly frank,” sighed Mrs. Austin.

“Do you suppose your mother knows where you are, Juana?” asked Betty.

“How would she know? I do not understand why it was done. Last evening Señor Austin came to the Casa del Diaz—alone. Porfiro Mendez came, and they talked together, until both became angry, and Señor Austin struck Porfiro a terrible blow, knocking him down. Then Señor Austin left the patio, and in a little while Porfiro was able to depart. My mother said she did not know what was said between them, but she was very angry with Porfiro and told him never to return.”

Mrs. Austin groaned rather dismally. “I detest brawls.”

“I think Porfiro does, too,” laughed Juana. “I found one of his teeth on the patio floor. And poor Porfiro was so proud of his teeth.”

“But what is to become of us?” sighed Mrs. Austin. “It seems to me that the government should take a hand in this matter.”

Juana smiled and shook her head. “You must remember that there is no duty on importing white women into Mejico.”

CHAPTER XIX
Gathering Storm

The little village of Piñon was one of the most picturesque places in Mexico, but little known. Too far from the border and beaten trails, it had kept its identity. One main street, about three blocks long, no building more than two stories high, no sidewalks; dusty streets, every feature typical of Old Mexico. It was a village of little commerce, but much siesta. Looking white at a distance in the sunlight, a closer inspection showed the many coloured walls of ancient adobe, old hand-made tile roofs, quaint architecture.

Such was the town of Piñon, which Porfiro Mendez ruled as alcalde. His was the supreme word, and he had enough personal followers to enforce any order he might give. The rest of Mexico seemed to have forgotten Piñon; and Porfiro was glad. He collected the taxes in the name of the government, and spent them in his own name. No one cared, it seemed. And if any one did, and aired his grievances, he simply paid more—in the name of the government.

Porfiro’s home was the best in town, situated but a short distance from the main street. A rambling old two-storey adobe, with many wings and thick walls, the whole was surrounded with a huge wall capable of withstanding any ordinary siege.

Just now Porfiro Mendez did not look like the king of Piñon. He sat in a huge, hand-carved chair, nursing his split and swollen lips, while he steeped his feelings in tequila. He had lost a front tooth from his upper jaw, and the two lower ones were wobbly. The bottle emptied, he threw it at a door across the room, from where it rebounded, making a great clatter. The door opened, and Ricardo Gonzales, slightly blear-eyed from too much vino, bowed drunkenly, a good and faithful servant, even if drunk.

“Tequila!” roared Mendez, lisping a trifle, due to missing and loose teeth. “And send your brother to me at once.”

“Yezzir,” said Ricardo.

Miguel came in and owlishly looked Mendez over, but Porfiro merely stared back at him sullenly and waited until Ricardo came stumbling in with a fresh bottle of tequila, which he clumsily uncorked and placed before Mendez. Mendez shifted his bloodshot eyes from the bottle to Miguel.

“Well?” he snarled.

“I’m leesten t’rough from the weendow,” began Miguel. “These woman——”

“Talk español!”

Miguel swallowed heavily, and began in Spanish: “I could hear little. The women did not know where they were, but Juana says they are in Piñon. She said you were a thief and would steal anything. She said——”

“Loco bobo! You would hear things of no import. Go to Indian Wells and see what you may hear—both of you. If there is news of importance, you may disturb me, but not otherwise.”

They went back to their own room, finished up the bottle of vino, and prepared for the ride to Indian Wells.

“I’m been theenk quite a lot,” stated Miguel, missing his head with his big hat, but finally getting it on.

“Good! I’m glad to hear from that, Mike. W’at you theenk?”

“I’m theenk,” solemnly, “that eef these Americanos fin’ out we got those weemen, we bot’ get ’ung.”

“Mm-m-m-ha. That ees sometheeng wort’ theenk ’bout. W’at you s’pose Porfiro steal them womens for, eh? Yo’ng one wort’ look at, but ol’ one not wort’ damn. W’y he steal Juana?”

“Porfiro goin’ marry wit’ Juana.”

“’Ow you know thees theeng?”

“Make guess.”

“Huh! That all right. But them w’ite womens make me scare. Bimeby t’ree, four cowboy come down ’ere—wham, bam, bam! W’ere we be, eh?”

“Porfiro feex everything.”

“Sure. He be beeg ’elp to me w’en somebody got rope on my neck. He’s say, ‘Take off de rope.’ Cowboy say, ‘Bien.’ Yes?”

“You see,” Mike stated owlishly. “Porfiro save you.”

“Porfiro save de rope—but I’m dead like hell. Come on.”

It was nearly noon the following day when a rig drew up at the Star A ranch house, and Edward Chandler, the prosecuting attorney from Silver Bar, and another tall, lean, hard-faced man climbed down stiffly. Cal Sands, down at the corral with Dave Elkinson, saw the lawyer and swore angrily.

“What’s the matter?” asked Dave anxiously.

“Oh, that damn attorney from Silver Bar, nosin’ around again. Looks like Buck Reed with him. I wonder if they’ve appointed Reed to serve out Nolan’s time.”

“He’s one salty gent,” observed Dave. “A good man to let alone.”

Sands nodded coldly, as he saw Frank Austin come out on the porch. Austin knew Chandler, who introduced Buck Reed as the new sheriff.

“Quite a drive out here from Silver Bar,” said Austin. “Come in.”

“Let’s sit out here,” suggested Chandler. “We just wanted to talk with you a little—about something that happened over in our town one night.”

Austin’s jaw tightened for a moment, as they sat down. “What——” Austin paused.

“Where’s your son, Austin?” asked the sheriff.

“I—I think he’s in Indian Wells. Do you want him?”

“Not yet. You do the talkin’, Ed.”

The lawyer cleared his throat raspingly. “Austin, how much did you pay Nolan to cover that killin’?” he shot.

Austin’s colour faded quickly, but he was game. “Who said I paid anything?”

“I am not at liberty to divulge names.”

“Meaning that you can’t prove I paid a cent.”

“That remains to be seen, Austin. Slade was a detective.”

“What of it?”

“Chance shot,” smiled Chandler. “I wasn’t sure before. Of course, you know Slade was shot in the back—murdered.”

Austin was prepared for this, and did not flinch.

“I wired San Francisco to examine the body,” continued the lawyer, “and they wired back that the body had been cremated.”

Austin took a deep breath of relief, which turned quickly to dismay as Chandler said slowly: “I don’t like murder, Austin; so I worked a little frame-up on the coroner, who confessed to his part in the matter. I think he is willing to go on the stand and swear Slade was murdered. But here’s the queer part—he swears you never paid him a cent.”

“Well, I—I——” Austin choked. “Damn it, you can’t prove a thing!” he finally blurted.

“It is a case of corpus delicti, I will admit. Nolan was guilty of helping cover the real crime; but Nolan is dead. If you gave the money to him, he failed to split with the coroner, unless the coroner lies about it.”

“I never gave anybody—any officer money,” protested Austin.

“You drew five thousand dollars on the day of the inquest.”

“Why shouldn’t I? Damn it, what is five thousand to me?”

“True enough,” admitted the lawyer.

“Any word from yore wife and daughter?” asked Reed.

“Not a word. You’ll have to excuse me if I act queerly. I—I can’t even think clearly.”

“I appreciate your feelings,” replied Chandler. “But in spite of all that, I believe I have enough evidence on which to prosecute. It is a nasty little deal, and I am going to clear it up. If your son is innocent, I’m sure he would rather be exonerated in court than to go on——”

“You—you are going to arrest Hal?” asked Austin weakly.

“I am not, but I shall have it done,” Reed stated firmly. “You see, this is not my county, Mr. Austin.”

Frank Austin sat there dumbly and watched them turn the team around and start toward Keno City. As soon as they were gone, Cal Sands came sauntering up from the corral, looking quizzically at Austin.

“What did them damn’ buzzards want, Frank?” he asked curiously.

“Them damn’ buzzards, as you call them, have gone to Keno City to get La Plante to arrest Hal for murder.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“The coroner confessed.”

“Confessed?”

Austin nodded slowly. “He confessed that Slade was murdered, but swears he never got a cent from me for helping cover it up.”

“Well, you—that shouldn’t make you mad. Clears you all right.”

“But you gave it to him, didn’t you?”

Sands said nothing for several moments, but his brain was busy. “No,” he said; “I gave it to Nolan; he was to make the split.”

“Well, that’s lucky, at least. Nolan’s dead; so they can’t question him.”

“I wonder if Chandler could be bought.”

“None of that,” groaned Austin. “I paid five thousand to make a good fellow out of myself. Then I gave you five hundred to buy Rosita Diaz, and you got knocked down and robbed.”

“That was hard on me, too,” Sands smiled grimly. “I suppose she had some of her friends planted out behind the house, and they got the money without makin’ any promises.”

“Anyway,” Austin said wearily, “I’m not going to buy Chandler. It will probably cost me a lot more than Chandler’s price, to hire a good criminal lawyer, but I’ll at least know the money was earned. Damn it, this is a terrible mess, any way you look at it. Cal, whatever became of Hal’s gun the night of the shooting?”

“I don’t know. Nolan says he was never able to find it.”

Austin thought for a moment. At last he turned to the other matter that was agitating his mind. “Did you say anything to the rest of the boys about going into Mexico to-night?”

“Shore; they’re ready. We don’t want to go down much before dark. That is, we don’t want to reach Indian Wells before dark. If Mendez has anything to do with this deal, he’ll have Indian Wells watched. We’ve got to be careful. I’ll be damned if I want to run up against a dozen Yaquis, armed with Mausers. They don’t love a gringo—and they can shoot.”

Austin nodded in agreement.

Goober Glendon and Johnny Wells were in Keno City, when Chandler and Reed came back from the Star A and went to the sheriff’s office, where they held a long conversation with Pete La Plante, and afterward went to the courthouse. Goober did not suspect what it was about, until the Keno City sheriff told him that Chandler had sworn out a warrant for the arrest of Hal Austin, charging him with murder, and giving the warrant to La Plante.

Pete did not relish the job. He had known Hal pretty well, and he liked the kid. Goober rubbed his grizzled chin and thought it over.

“How about lettin’ that go for a day or so, Pete?” he asked.

“Well, there ain’t no time limit on it,” smiled La Plante. “Are yuh still hankerin’ to go down to Piñon?”

“I shore am.”

“Smoky said it was jist the kind of a holiday he needed. I hope to gosh that Smoky gits a bellyful of fight some day, and I’m pretty sure he’ll be goin’ to the place where they manufacture trouble. What time do we start?”

“Me and Johnny will go down early, and you show up with Smoky after dark. We don’t want to do anythin’ that might look suspicious. We can slip out of Indian Wells in the dark, and nobody will know where we’ve gone.”

“Good idea.”

“And yuh can leave your badge at home, Pete. Be a good alibi if anybody asks yuh why yuh didn’t arrest Hal Austin to-night.”

Pete laughed softly. “I don’t need any alibi, Goober.”

It was mid afternoon when Goober and Johnny arrived at Indian Wells. They did not stable their horses, but tied them on the main street, and loafed around until they saw Hal. He was going to the Casa del Diaz; so they followed him over. He was at a table in the patio, and nodded to them.

“Any news?” asked Goober.

Hal shook his head and motioned for Goober to sit down with him. Johnny got some crackers and proceeded to make friends with a red and blue parrot, while Goober proceeded to tell Hal about the warrant. Hal listened gravely. “How much of a case do you think they’ve got against me?” he asked.

“Enough to keep yuh in jail until next term of court.”

“I suppose that’s true; but I’m as innocent as you are.”

Goober knew this to be the truth, but he also was aware that it might be difficult to prove. He led Hal to talk about things at the ranch before trouble came his way. “Do the boys do much rifle practice out there?” asked Goober.

“Not so very much. Dave Elkinson is a good shot. They used to take my money away regularly, but I found out later that the sights on their rifles were not accurate. They allowed for that, of course. Rather a crooked way of taking my money, wasn’t it?

“But I got even. Sands traded rifles with one of the men at the 7 Bar 7, and I tried it out the first day, when no one else was there. I made a rest on a sack of sand and an old table, and I found that it threw about three inches high and about the same distance to the right at a hundred yards. I won most of my money back on one bet.”

“What calibre was it?” queried Goober.

“Thirty-thirty.”

Goober grinned thoughtfully, and felt of the empty thirty-thirty shells in his pocket. Rosita came through the patio and shook hands solemnly with Goober, who grinned with delight.

“She’s a peach,” said Hal, after Rosita left them.

Goober nodded slowly.

“Did you know Diaz?” asked Hal.

“Diaz?”

“Juana’s father.”

“Oh! No, I didn’t know him,” Goober said.

“You knew Rosita and her sister a long time ago, didn’t you?” Hal inquired.

“Almost as long as you are old—mebby longer.”

“The sister was the wife of Porfiro Mendez.”

“Yeah. Twin sisters; I knew ’em both. Couple pretty Mexican girls.”

“Do you know anything about Mendez?” Hal asked.

“Only what I’ve heard. He married one of the girls and took her down into Mexico. I dunno what happened to her.”

“Juana told me some of it,” Hal explained. “It seems that Mendez mistreated her as long as she could stand it, and then she ran away and came up here to her sister. Mendez didn’t know what became of her, I guess. Anyway, a baby was born, and Mrs. Mendez died. Later the baby died. I’ve seen their graves.”

“Do you think Mendez had anythin’ to do with the disappearance of Juana Diaz?” asked Goober.

“I don’t know. Before she disappeared my father met Mendez in here. They had words, and my father knocked him down. I believe dad knocked some of his teeth out. Mrs. Diaz must have heard some of the quarrel, because she told Mendez to never come here again. You see, Mendez wanted to marry Juana.”

“Well, the fat old son of a sea cook! Wanted to marry her, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Hm-m-m-m. I wonder what yore father and Mendez quarrelled over.”

“I have no idea. Mrs. Diaz refused to tell me.”

“Mendez has quite a followin’ down in his town, I understand.”

“I suppose he has. He always has the Gonzales brothers with him, as sort of a bodyguard. They are known as a tough pair—and look it. And how they can murder the king’s English . . . If I only knew where Juana is! . . . Dad and I had just about broken off diplomatic relationship. He wants me to come back to the ranch, but I refuse to live around Cal Sands. It isn’t right for us to be separated just now, but I can’t help it. He prefers Sands to me.”

“It’s shore funny there ain’t no word from yore mother and sister.”

“I don’t understand it. If it’s ransom they want, why don’t they ask for it? Mr. Glendon, I’m beginning to fear it is worse than that.”

“Well, there’s plenty time to cross a bridge when yuh come to it. Wait a while and somethin’ will happen.”

“You mean—you know something will happen?”

“If it don’t, you can cross me off as a bum prophet, kid.”

They left Hal at the Casa, and went back to the street, where they saw Ricardo and Miguel. The brothers had consumed much wine and were mellow, but Goober and Johnny knew they were in Indian Wells for a purpose. There were several Yaqui Indians in evidence, apparently unarmed, but no one could tell what was under their dirty serapes.

It was nearly dark when Dave Elkinson and Hank Britton of the Star A rode in and tied their horses in front of a cantina about midway of the street. Both men had holstered rifles on their saddles. They nodded to Goober and Johnny and went into the bar. Goober grew serious, wondering what these two were doing in town, carrying rifles on their saddles. Darkness had settled down over the town when Frank Austin and Cal Sands rode in. Goober and Johnny saw them dismount, in the light from a cantina window.

“What’s comin’ off, I wonder?” muttered Goober, as they sauntered down the street and took a look at the two horses.

He and Johnny stood back in the shadow for a while, and finally the two men came out. They conversed in low tones for several moments, and separated, Sands going down the street toward the cantina, where Elkinson and Britton were, while Austin apparently started for the Casa del Diaz.

Hal left the Casa before his father reached there, and had started for the stable where he kept his horse, when a little Mexican stepped from the shadows near the Casa and spoke his name.

“I am Hal Austin,” replied Hal, a little startled. The Mexican drew a folded note from under his serape and handed it to him.

“Carta, señor.”

Hal unfolded it, lighted a match, and read it quickly.

“Who gave you this?” asked Hal sharply.

“No entiendo, señor.”

“I suppose you don’t understand. Still, that is Betty’s writing. Have you a horse?”

“Si, señor.”

“All right. Wait for me at the end of the street.”

Goober and Johnny saw Hal ride past, but he did not see them, and they did not see him join the little Mexican guide at the end of the street. They wondered where he could be going, but were not greatly interested.

Frank Austin had gone searching for Hal. He wanted to tell Hal that the prosecuting attorney from Silver Bar had sworn out a warrant for his arrest. Austin was sick over the whole affair, but he wanted to assure Hal that he was behind him.

But Hal was not in the cantina nor the patio. Several others in the patio were eating by the light of candles, but Hal was not there. Austin questioned one of the orchestra, and the man said Hal had just left there.

Austin went out, intending to search for Hal, but his intentions were ruined quickly, when two men stepped from the shadows, prodded him with their guns, and quickly took his gun away.

“No noise, señor,” warned one of them. “We do not order twice.”

Austin swore to himself as they escorted him away from the town, where they found three saddled horses behind a ruined adobe. Forcing him to mount, they swiftly roped him on, gagged and blindfolded him, and rode away with him, leading his horse.

CHAPTER XX
A Fog of Gun Smoke

Rosita from her window on the patio had seen Austin enter the Casa, and she saw him go away, after questioning the musician. She asked the man what Austin wanted, and was told he was looking for Hal. Rosita had gone back to her room, when a tapping on the grille of a rear window caused her to investigate. It was Ricardo Gonzales, half-drunk, but very serious.

“What do you want, Ricardo?” she asked anxiously.

“But a word, señora; a word in confidence. If you would witness a marriage, go to Piñon this night.”

“Juana?” she asked breathlessly.

“Si, señora. This is in confidence. I am not to tell any one.”

“Thank you, Ricardo.”

The Mexican faded away in the darkness, and Rosita turned quickly to her riding clothes. She had feared this with a fear greater than any she had ever known. Mendez would marry Juana whether the girl agreed or not. An old priest of Piñon would willingly do Mendez’s bidding. Not much of a priest, but nevertheless a priest. Rosita drew a heavy revolver from an old chest of drawers and put it inside her waist. Slipping on her boots, she pinched out the candles, and glided through a rear door.

It was about this time that Sheriff La Plante and his deputy, Smoky Hill, rode into town, and were met by Goober and Johnny, who quickly told them about the four men from the Star A, who were in town, carrying rifles on their saddles.

“Seen anythin’ of Hal?” the sheriff asked Goober.

“Yeah, and had a talk with him about yore warrant. He didn’t seem much excited about it, but a little later he rode down the street. It might be that he stepped over into Mexico, although he didn’t act that scared.”

“He can stay down there, as far as I’m concerned,” growled Pete. “But where do yuh reckon them Star A fellers are goin’ with the rifles? If they wasn’t lookin’ for trouble, they wouldn’t be takin’ rifles along. I don’t believe they came through Keno City.”

“Prob’ly circled the town,” said Goober. “They didn’t want you to see ’em go through.”

“Yuh don’t suppose they’re goin’ to Mexico, do yuh?” asked Smoky.

“Might be.”

They strolled past the cantina and could see Sands and the two hands, Elkinson and Britton, at the bar. From there they went over to the Casa del Diaz and had a drink at the bar, but there was no sign of Frank Austin.

“I’m shore he came over here,” said Goober.

As they stood at the bar Cal Sands came in. He nodded to them and went to the patio, but came back in a few moments. “Pete, have yuh seen anythin’ of Frank Austin?” he asked.

“Nope,” replied the sheriff.

“Yuh don’t mean to say you’ve lost him, too, do yuh?” queried Smoky. “Gosh, you Star A punchers shore are careless.”

Sands flushed angrily, but did not reply.

“Yuh don’t want to lose track of him,” grinned Smoky. “He might git absent-minded and give yuh the other half of the ranch.”

Smoky had drunk enough to be sarcastic, and Pete kicked him on the ankle as warning not to go too far. Smoky laughed and turned to the bar. Sands shifted his eyes to Pete La Plante.

“Yore friend seems amused at his own wit, Pete.”

“I wouldn’t take it any further, if I was you,” said Goober calmly.

“Yuh wouldn’t, eh?” snorted Sands. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

Goober grinned softly. “Want to know who I am?”

“I asked yuh, didn’t I?”

“I’m the jasper that stole Hal Austin’s gun that night in Silver Bar.”

Sands’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, is that so? And what good did that do you?”

“You’d prob’ly be astonished, Sands,” Goober said softly.

“Yea-a-a-ah?” Sands seemed at a loss just what to say, when one of the musicians, still carrying his guitar, came into the cantina, and Sands turned to him. “Have you seen Frank Austin here to-night, Perez?”

The Mexican nodded. “Yes, he was ’ere for moment, but went away. He ask me eef I see hees son, and I say he gone away.”

Sands nodded and walked out, paying no further attention to the four men at the bar.

“What about that gun, Goober?” queried the sheriff.

“There was two empty shells in the cylinder, but the gun hadn’t been shot.”

“You mean—young Austin never fired them shots?”

“No more than I did, but we can’t prove it now. Only our word that the gun hadn’t been cleaned by us.”

“You mean that Sands had anythin’ to do with it?”

“I can’t prove a thing—no matter what I feel. But I’ve got a scheme. It may not work; prob’ly won’t; however, c’mon, anyway.”

Sands was boiling with rage when he left the Casa del Diaz, and as he started away from the front door he came face to face with Ricardo Gonzales. As swiftly as the attack of a panther Sands grasped Gonzales by the throat and crashed him up against the adobe wall beside the lighted window. The Mexican, his eyes bulging out, fought for his breath against those muscular hands. Suddenly Sands released one hand, drew his gun, and shoved the cold muzzle against Gonzales’s neck. “Talk fast, greaser,” he said hoarsely, “Where’s Mendez?”

“Piñon,” wheezed the half-choked Mexican. “Por Dios, señor!”

“Piñon, eh? Where is Juana Diaz? Speak the truth or I kill you.”

“Piñon, Señor Sands. To-night she weds.”

“Weds? Don’t lie, greaser. You mean she marries Porfiro Mendez to-night?”

Gonzales nodded. “I believe,” he said simply, and the next instant he went sprawling from a right-hand smash on the jaw, sagging limply on the ground against the wall, while Sands strode back toward the main street. He laughed to himself as he crossed to the cantina. Venting his wrath on a poor Mexican, he had received some information he did not expect. Austin was not in the cantina, and the other two cowboys looked at him inquiringly.

“Can’t find him,” growled Sands. “Where in hell do you suppose he went? But I got some information from Dick Gonzales—choked it out of him. Mendez is goin’ to marry Juana Diaz in Piñon to-night—unless we stop it.”

“Do you believe that greaser?” asked Elkinson. “How about him givin’ us a bum steer, eh? Maybe Mendez and his Yaquis are——”

“Scared?” asked Sands.

“No, I ain’t scared.”

“We can pull out of here, like we are goin’ home,” Sands said, “then circle wide and head for Piñon. We don’t need to ride the road.”

“But what about Austin?” asked Britton. “We don’t want to go without him.”

“I can’t find him. Somethin’ has happened to him. I went to the——”

“Señor Sands?”

Sands whirled quickly to see a small Mexican, his brown hands holding a crumpled envelope.

“What do you want?” snarled Sands.

“Carta, Señor Sands,” he said simply, handing Sands the grimy envelope.

“What’s this?” muttered Sands, examining the envelope. It was addressed to Cal Sands, Keno City, Arizona, but bore no postmark and the stamp had not been cancelled. It was sealed, but had been opened across one end.

Sands inserted a forefinger and thumb, drawing out the folded piece of paper, which he opened. There were only a few scrawled lines. His eyes flashed to the signature, and he stiffened quickly, his eyes shifting from window to door. Everything seemed all right. A couple of Mexicans were shaking dice at one end of the bar, one man was asleep at a table, his two cowboys stood beside him wondering what it was all about.

His eyes flashed back to the letter, quickly scanning the penned lines. His face twisted strangely, mouth partly open. There was a face at the window—Goober Glendon. The letter dropped from Sands’s hand, and it was still falling when Sands drew and fired through the window.

The crash of the heavy shot shook the little cantina. Sands flung himself sidewise along the bar, landing on his hands and knees, crawling swiftly into the rear room. It had happened so swiftly that Elkinson and Britton stood there gawping, trying to understand what it was all about.

Then the door was flung open, and Pete La Plante yelled: “Come out, boys; the game is up.”

“Sands is gone!” yelled Smoky. “Watch that back patio, Johnny.”

It was then that Elkinson and Britton came to life. Their guns were out, and they were coming straight for the door, shooting wildly, trying to carve their way to freedom, their bullets smacking against the adobe walls across the street. Out through the fog of smoke they came. There were other shots, which were not smacking against adobe.

Dave Elkinson pitched out through the doorway, and Britton fell over him, his gun flying from his hand. Pete and Smoky fell upon them quickly, while Goober, blood running down his face, which had been cut by flying glass, stumbled into the fog of the cantina and retrieved that letter.

There had been two shots fired behind the cantina, both fired by Sands as he vaulted over the patio wall and almost fell on Johnny Wells; and Johnny was staggering around with a slight scalp wound and a powder-burned forehead.

But Johnny knew which way Sands had gone, and was on his trail, running through littered alleys and around to the main street. Johnny fell over a broken barrel, lost his gun, and was obliged to waste valuable seconds in recovering it. He reached the street in time to see Sands spurring his horse down the street away from the cantina where the shooting had been done. It was not Sands’s horse; it was Smoky’s horse. Johnny might have been justified in yelling for assistance, but he never thought of such a thing. Into his saddle he went, and went racing down the street, following the escaping foreman of the Star A.

Elkinson and Britton, the fight knocked out of both of them, were dragged back into the cantina. The bartender had decamped, the two dice-shaking Mexicans had gone out through a window, the drunk asleep against the table was now under the table on all fours, coughing in the powder-smoke. Smoky came running in from the rear.

“Sands got away, and Johnny must be after him!” he yelled.

“What in hell went wrong?” asked Elkinson hoarsely. “Sands started shootin’ and—— What was in that damn letter?”

“Enough to hang the whole bunch of yuh,” replied Goober. “You fellers looted the Star A—you and Terrill’s outfit, with the assistance of the sheriff over at Silver Bar. Sands killed Terrill, and between the three of yuh you killed Nolan and the two 7 Bar 7 punchers. Elkinson, you’ll hang for the murder of Jigger Slade.”

“Not by a damn sight, I don’t!” squawked Elkinson. “Nolan killed Jigger, because Jigger knew Nolan was a rustler and was goin’ to tell Austin.”

“That’s yore story. Both of you will stretch rope, that’s a cinch.”

“Not me,” groaned Britton. “You can’t hang me for helpin’ kill them two 7 Bar 7 horse-thieves. It was Sands who killed Nolan that day. Me and Dave never had no hand in that.”

“No, but you helped to rustle horses. When a horse-thief kills a horse-thief, it’s murder. And you two tried to murder me back there on the road, the day Riecho was killed. Unless I’m mistaken one of you killed Riecho.”

“I swear we didn’t,” wailed Dave. “Riecho was our bunkie.”

“Which one of you two helped Riecho hold up the stage that mornin’ and rob Austin and the women?” demanded Goober.

“Are yuh goin’ to let us set here and die?” asked Britton. “I’m all shot to hell, I tell yuh.”

“Which one of yuh helped him?”

“I did, damn yuh. Now git a doctor for us, Johnny Wise.”

“All right,” nodded Goober, a grim smile on his lips.

The sheriff looked blankly at Goober.

“But where are Sands and Johnny?” wondered Smoky.

Quite a crowd had collected, and a Mexican pushed forward.

“Two men left town,” he said. “It was just after the shooting. One came running to the street above here and mounted a horse. In a few moments a man followed him, also mounting a horse. Both men were without hats.”

“Which way did they go?” asked Goober anxiously.

“South, señor—and going very fast.”

“Sands has headed into Mexico, and we’ll never get him,” said Pete.

“I’ll bet on Johnny,” replied Goober. “Pete, you’ll have to stay here with yore prisoners, while me and Smoky go huntin’ for Johnny. Mebbe we’ll have to go plumb to Mexico City; Johnny’s first name is Bulldog.”

Smoky swore over the loss of his favourite horse, but climbed on Pete’s horse, left the stirrups as they were, and galloped out of town, knees almost up to the fork of the saddle.

“What the hell was it all about?” yelled Smoky. “Why did Sands kill Terrill and Nolan?”

“The three of ’em were looting the Star A,” replied Goober. “As soon as Austin gave Sands a half interest he wanted to quit stealin’ Star A, and he wanted them to quit; but the game was too good. They wanted their cut, or they’d expose Sands.”

“Well for the love of gosh! How long have you known that?”

“About five minutes,” Goober grinned.

CHAPTER XXI
Mendez’s Surprise

“No, I do not know what it is about.” Juana shook her head as she watched the two Yaqui Indians setting up a long table in their room.

“But you understand their language,” insisted Mrs. Austin.

“Certainly; but they do not talk of what they are doing.”

The big table properly placed, the two men went out and brought in some big coloured cloths, which were spread on the table. Then they brought in some huge old silver pieces, some big candelabra fitted with wax candles, and finally a miscellaneous collection of silver dishes.

“It looks very much as though we might be going to have a party,” said Betty.

Juana shuddered and turned away. “I believe I understand,” she said. “It is for a wedding.”

“How wonderful!” exclaimed Betty.

“Wonderful for whom?” asked Juana dully.

“Why, for us. I’d love to see a Mexican wedding.”

“Would you like to marry some one you do not love—one you hate?”

“Certainly not. I don’t understand what you mean, Juana.”

“Wait and see.” Juana was tense.

“You worry me,” complained Mrs. Austin. “Surely no one would have to marry——”

“This is Mexico, señora.”

“I realise that, but——”

Mrs. Austin paused as Porfiro Mendez came through the doorway. The big Mexican was as picturesque as stamped leather, silk, and silver could make a man. He might have stepped out of grand opera—or comic opera. Behind him came a priest, and such a priest! Tall and gaunt, a nose like an eagle’s beak, deeply sunken eyes, toothless mouth, and a skin like a mummy. His hood was thrown back to disclose a hairless head, perfectly round, atop a skinny neck. His arms were abnormally long, his huge, bony hands clutching at his robe as he grinned toothlessly at the three women.

“Madre de Dios!” whispered Juana.

Mendez smiled expansively.

“That is my uncle,” said Juana.

“Ah, my leetle Juana,” lisped Mendez, whose upper lip was still swollen from Austin’s blow.

“Puerco!” replied Juana. “You pig, why did you steal these women, Lobo Mendez? You are the son of a pig, a creature too vile to name.”

The priest looked inquiringly at Porfiro, who laughed amusedly. “Thees padre cannot hear,” he said. “He ees ver’ ’armless, biccause he can not ’ear nor bite.

“Señora and señorita,” Mendez swept off his silver-trimmed sombrero and made an elaborate bow to Mrs. Austin and Betty, “I welcome you to the poor ’ome of Porfiro Mendez. You will please excuse eef I ’ave not approach’ you biffore. But I am extreme’ busy man.”

“You are very big liar,” corrected Juana, and Mendez laughed.

“You mus’ excuse Juana,” he said. “She ees my seester’s leetle girl, and she feel free to call me anything. But I am ver’ forgiving.”

“But why were we stolen and kept here?” asked Mrs. Austin.

Mendez shrugged his shoulders. “That ees something I prefer to show—not tell. A leetle later maybe I shall—uh—what you call demon-demonstrite. Is that the right word? You mus’ excuse my Englis’.”

“Does my mother know where I am?” demanded Juana.

“Quién sabe, dulce amiga? By this time, I theenk so. I kindly send her an invitation to the wedding. Perhaps,” shrugging his big shoulders, “she do not care to come.”

“What wedding?” Juana snapped.

“’Ere to-night.”

“Whose wedding?”

Mendez laughed at her. “I ’ave select a ’usband for you. You wan’ be ol’ maid? Hm-m-m-m,” he looked thoughtfully at Betty, “I’m don’t like see one pretty girl cheated. Maybe I find ’usband for you, too.”

“But I do not want a husband,” said Betty, just a trifle frightened, though she hardly could take all this seriously.

Mendez lifted his brows slightly. “I am Porfiro Mendez, and I am only man in Piñon who is not refused, señorita. I take w’at I want.”

“But that is absurd,” said Mrs. Austin severely. “You cannot do a thing like that. Perhaps you do not know who we are.”

“Si, I know. I know your ’usband ver’ well, señora. From heem I get this.”

He brushed aside his moustache, exposing his swollen lips and gums.

“You see? For that he shall pay Porfiro Mendez personally. No man strike Porfiro Mendez and not pay well.”

“You do this for revenge, eh?” queried Juana.

“We-e-e-ell—now, yes. At firs’—well, no matter. I weel be satisfy.”

He touched the priest on the shoulder and they started for the door, but at that moment two armed Yaqui Indians came in, prodding Hal Austin ahead of them. His hands were bound behind his back, but he was neither gagged nor blindfolded. Mendez looked at him and laughed heartily.

“W’at ’ave we ’ere? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Thees brave man from Indian Wells come all the way to save hees seester.”

Mrs. Austin and Betty started toward Hal, but the guards stepped between them, blocking their advance. Hal looked as though he had been in a fight, and one of the Yaquis had one eye swollen shut. Hal looked at Betty accusingly. “I received your note,” Hal said.

“I feex up that note,” laughed Mendez. “One of my men is so sympathetic, and he offer to take note to you from your seester. She ver’ glad to write it. You see, I theenk of many thing to make my guests ’appy.”

Mendez stepped behind Hal and quickly untied his bonds. “You are not tied,” the Lobo said, “but you would be ver’ foolish to try and escape.”

Mendez then walked out with the priest, and one of the Yaqui Indians stood inside the door, leaning on his rifle. Hal looked around the room, shrugged his shoulders and went over to Juana.

“What does it mean, Juana?” he asked, indicating the table.

“Oh, Hal, I—I’m afraid Mendez means to force me to marry him.”

“So that’s why the big brute kidnapped you, eh? We’ll see about that.” Hal turned to his mother and threw an arm around her shoulder. “Are you all right, mother?”

She began to cry on his shoulder, and he turned to Betty. “Have you been mistreated, Betty?”

“No, Hal; not in the least. The beds and food might be better, but we have not suffered, except in spirit. It seems as though we have been here years. Hasn’t anything been done to rescue us? Why hasn’t dad——”

“No one knows where you are, Betty. Our hands have been tied. There did not appear to be any reason for suspecting Mendez. Damn his greasy hide, I’d like to twist his head off. What about this marriage? Hasn’t he told you anything about it?”

“He—he said he had a husband for Juana; and he might have one for me.”

“But you know he can’t do such a thing like that,” sobbed Mrs. Austin.

Hal shook his head miserably. “Mother, we’re up against a tough deal. This Mendez is like a king in this place. He owns everybody, and his word is law.”

“But such a marriage is not legal, Hal.”

“Not from a civilised viewpoint, mother. But what does Mendez care? If he wanted Juana or Betty, he’d take them, marriage or no marriage. And who could stop him? Don’t you see, we are absolutely at the mercy of a man who is no better than a wolf. ‘Lobo’ they call him, and that’s what he is.”

“But there must be a way out, Hal.”

“I wish I knew where it is. I haven’t even a pocket knife.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Hal,” said Betty tearfully. “It is my fault that you are here. I believed the Mexican would give you that note in secret.”

“They are all owned by Mendez. Don’t blame yourself; you did what you thought was right. I walked right into an ambush. It was evident that they didn’t want to hurt me, but I sure slugged a couple of them good and hard. As far as that note was concerned, Mendez schemed it all out. Just why he wanted me down here, I don’t know.”

“To see him marry me?” said Juana bitterly.

“Did you see the priest?” asked Betty.

Hal nodded grimly. “Looks like a mummy. What a mug that padre wears!” He went over and put an arm around Juana. “Brace up, sweetheart. You are not Mendez’s wife yet. Something will turn up. We can’t lose faith.”

“What good is faith against treachery?” she asked miserably.

“Well, let’s wait and see.” He turned to his mother. “You have met Juana and been with her a while. Have you any objections to our marriage—if we had a chance?”

“Your father——” Mrs. Austin began, but Hal stopped her.

“Dad doesn’t figure in this at all, mother; I want your frank and unbiased opinion.”

Mrs. Austin looked at Juana for several moments. “I—I think I should give you my blessing, Hal.”

“You could have mine—if it is worth anything,” said Betty rather tearfully.

“I thank you both,” said Juana softly. “It is good to know that such a thing might have been.”

The Yaqui turned quickly to the door and flung it open. As he stepped back a woman in riding costume, her arms bound to her sides, a cloth gagged between her teeth, came in, escorted by a squat Mexican.

“Mother!” cried Juana, and ran toward her, but the Yaqui shoved her back. The Mexican took one of the chairs from the table and forced Mrs. Diaz to sit down, but he did not offer to take off the ropes or take away the gag.

Juana was furious, but the Mexican barred her way, threatening her with his gun, and she backed slowly.

“Oh, what a dirty shame!” gritted Hal impotently. “At least ask them to take off that dirty gag, Juana.”

Juana spoke swiftly to the Mexican, who shook his head and refused.

“Is that the order of Mendez?” she asked in Spanish.

“Yes—the orders of Mendez.”

The Mexican backed to the doorway and leaned on his rifle. Now there were two armed guards.

“Mother, you are not hurt?” asked Juana anxiously.

Mrs. Diaz, unable to speak, shook her head, indicating that she had not been hurt. But the gag must have been very painful, as it drew back the corners of her mouth cruelly.

“Why do they torture her that way and leave the rest of us free?” asked Betty. “What has she done to Mendez?”

Juana shook her head sadly. “Who know what Mendez will do? Mother has always treated him well enough.”

“She ordered him to never come in her place again,” said Hal. “It was after dad knocked him down.”

“Why did your father knock him down?” asked Juana.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. I think your mother heard what was said between them. Perhaps that is why he is doing this to her.”

Juana shook her head sadly. It was something she did not understand.

“Hal,” said Mrs. Austin huskily, “was Tony Riecho killed when we were kidnapped?”

Hal nodded. “Shot twice. Since you disappeared, Nolan, the sheriff over at Silver Bar, has been killed, and both cowboys at the 7 Bar 7 were shot down. Some one tried again to kill Goober Glendon, the old cowboy, but all they succeeded in doing was making his head sore. He seems to bear a charmed life.”

“Was he the old cowboy with that good-looking youngster?” Mrs. Austin asked.

“Yes. The young cowboy’s name is Johnny Wells.”

“Johnny Wells,” smiled Betty. “He is good-looking, Hal.”

“And very likeable,” said Hal slowly. “But that is neither here nor there. I’d be mighty glad to see even a homely cow-puncher, if he had a gun. I—I’d almost welcome Cal Sands, as much as I detest him.”

Juana tried to edge over closer to her mother, but the Mexican spoke sharply to her, and she came back. The Yaqui grinned, and as some one knocked on the door, he opened it quickly. It was Mendez, a little more drunk, his arms full of bottles of wine and tequila. He paid no attention to Rosita Diaz until he had stacked the bottles on the table. Then he turned and looked at her, a scowl on his face.

“So Ricardo gave you my message, eh? And you come to see wedding. Good. No use to try spik, my dear seester-in-law. Thees time is not proper for you to spik. You like see marriage, eh? You like see leetle Juana marry? Maybe nex’ time you theenk biffore you insult Porfiro Mendez. You know now, eh? Ha, ha, ha! For one time I’m ’ave woman w’ere she can’t spik.

“’Ow you like, Juana, eh? I’m ver’ sorry, but your mother mus’ not interrup’ wedding. She see much, but spik notink. I wait one hour more, biccause we may ’ave one more guest, and then we ’ave wedding. Plenty vino, tequila, much roas’ cheeken; beeg wedding fiesta. Oh, all ver’ nice. Porfiro Mendez do everything ver’ nice. He even pay padre.”

Mendez swelled with importance and twisted his moustaches. Finally he took a bottle, knocked off the long neck against the edge of the table, poured out a huge tumblerful, and held it up to the light of the candles.

“Una brindis! W’at you call ‘toast,’ eh? To thees bride!” He drained the glass and wiped his moustaches with his open palm.

“Ah-h-h-ha!” He threw up his head and listened. One of the guards grunted and threw open the door.

“Entre!” snapped a voice outside, and in came Frank Austin, stumbling, almost falling. His hands were bound behind him, a gag between his teeth. He was a picture of abject misery as Mendez drew a chair out beside Rosita Diaz and the guard forced him to occupy it.

“Frank!” exclaimed Mrs. Austin.

“Dad!” Betty started for him, only to be shoved back against her mother, who had had the same idea.

“Stay there,” ordered Mendez harshly. Austin seemed dazed as his eyes swept the room, probably wondering what it was all about. Mendez turned to his guards, spoke swiftly to them in Spanish, and they all went out, but their places were taken by Ricardo and Miguel Gonzales. Ricardo caressed a swollen jaw, where Sands’s knock-out blow had landed, and scowled at the Americans.

“You dog!” Juana flung at Ricardo, and Miguel laughed.

“W’y you laugh?” growled Ricardo.

“Thees lady know you ver’ well,” his brother said with a grin.

“Shut off!”

“Bot’ of you shut up!” roared Mendez.

“Ricardo die from sore jaw pretty soon,” laughed Miguel. “He say ’orse keek heem. I bet your life eet was Americano ’orse weeth two leg.”

“Calle!” roared Mendez. “No talk.”

“Sure,” grinned the irrepressible Miguel. “I’m shut off like clem.”

“Clem?” jeered Ricardo.

“I say clem. Clem jus’ like hoyster.”

“I make hoyster from you,” snarled Mendez. “Not speak! I myself personally weel do the talking.”

“Gracias.”

“Thees ’orse, Ricardo,” whispered Miguel loudly, “ees w’at colour?”

Crash! Mendez’s bottle of tequila barely missed Miguel’s head, and smashed to splinters against the wall.

“No spik,” promised Miguel. “All t’rough, Onkle Porfiro.”

Mendez was furious. He glared at them viciously for several moments, but finally a smile overspread his face. He picked up two bottles, drew out the corks, and handed them to the brothers.

“I’m forget that you are dry,” he said apologetically.

“Sure,” grinned Miguel. “Too dry for talk.”

There was no doubt of their thirst, for they drank the potent tequila as an ordinary drinker might imbibe a light wine—not that they were able to handle it any better than a white man, but it seemed as though their gullets were composed of rawhide or some similarly durable material. Frank Austin seemed fascinated by the scene. His eyes shifted from one to the other, and finally to the gagged figure beside him, as though seeking an answer to why they were here.

“Well,” said Mendez, “there ees no reason for delay now. We are all ’ere. Ricardo, call the padre.”

There were a few moments of silence as Ricardo came back with the priest, who had apparently been coached in the business of the marriage. Slowly he advanced across the room, holding a book before him, and halted in front of Rosita Diaz and Frank Austin, facing away from them.

Porfiro Mendez smiled at Juana and motioned her to step forward, but she only drew back, fearful of what was about to happen. “Come,” said Mendez firmly. “You cannot escape. I do not like to force a lady.”

“Mendez, this is a rotten thing,” said Hal, stepping forward. “Don’t do it. I’ll admit we can’t stop you, but sooner or later you will be hunted down like a real lobo and killed. Stop and think what it means.”

Mendez grinned slowly. “You don’t like this idea? Well, I am ver’ much surprise’. All this time I theenk you wan’ marry Juana; and now you say eet ees rotten theeng.”

“Me marry Juana?” gasped Hal, not understanding.

“W’y not? Young folks in love sometime marry.”

Juana and Hal were looking blankly at each other. It was something they could not understand.

“The padre ees waiting,” said Mendez.

Hal turned to Mendez. “Is this on the square, Mendez? Do you mean that I am to marry Juana?”

“Seguramente. Sure.”

“Juana, do you understand it?”

“No, I——”

“All right,” said Hal rather breathlessly. “I’m ready.”

He took Juana by the arm and they stepped up in front of the padre. Frank Austin squirmed in agony in his chair, trying to twist the gag between his teeth, but his efforts were futile. The padre was intoning in a mixture of Latin and Spanish, and, as far as any of them understanding it, he might as well have been talking to himself. Mrs. Austin had her arm around Betty, and the two of them, white-faced, were leaning forward, fairly holding their breath. Frank Austin, exhausted with his efforts, slumped in his chair, his stricken, horrified eyes on the floor.

CHAPTER XXII
The Fiesta in Piñon

When Johnny Wells went pounding out of Indian Wells, following the fleeing Sands, he had no idea where the chase might lead. They whirled out around a cluster of adobe buildings, away from the lights, and swept into the open country, with only the stars for illumination.

Johnny had a good horse, but he realised that Sands had taken Smoky’s sorrel, a running fool. They struck a dusty road, which helped Johnny in following Sands. Of course he had no idea when he might run into Sands in the dark, but he was willing to take chances.

He had a hunch that they were heading south, and were already far across the border, but that meant little to Johnny Wells. He wanted Cal Sands, and he was going to get Cal Sands, if such a thing was possible. There was no sound except the sug, sug, sug of his horse’s hoofs in the dirt. Sands might turn off the road any time and double back on him, but Johnny rode high in his stirrups, running through the dust from Sands’s horse.

Cal Sands was not sure that any one was pursuing him, nor did he care. He realised that everything had broken against him, and that he would be a hunted man in Arizona or any other State. His only move was to head down through Mexico.

But first he was going to Piñon. Half crazed from the way Fate had brought his future tumbling about his ears, he was going to prevent Mendez from marrying Juana Diaz. His future, beyond that one thing, was rather vague. Perhaps he might take Juana south with him. Why not? The only thing left for him was freedom in Mexico, and why not have a pleasant freedom?

He realised whose horse he had taken, and derived pleasure from it. He owed Smoky something for those remarks in the Casa del Diaz, and this sorrel with the speed of the wind evened things up a little. Then he saw the lights of Piñon a mile ahead.

Reckless as he was, he realised that Mendez was not misnamed the Wolf. There would be guards, but Sands reasoned that the guards would only be at Mendez’s house. Sands had been there many times. He knew Piñon as well as he knew Keno City; so he swung off the road, circled the town and came in behind an old tumble-down wall not over a hundred yards from the walls of Mendez’s home.

The darkness favoured Sands, and he invariably dressed in black. Crouching low, he worked his way in close to the wall. To his right was the big arched entrance to the patio, and Sands felt sure there were guards at that gate. He pulled off his boots and left them beside the wall, gripping his heavy six-shooter in his right hand as he hunched over and went softly toward the gate.

There was a guard, a keen-eared Yaqui, just inside the gate, but just now he was rolling a cigarette and failed to hear anything. Sands flattened himself against the wide gate-post. He heard the Yaqui scratch a match to light his cigarette.

Slowly Sands straightened up, a pebble in his hand, and with a flip of his wrist sent it rolling along the opposite side of the gate. The sound was very slight, but the Yaqui heard it. The muzzle of a rifle came past Sands, and the Yaqui leaned out, only to go down in a heap from the slash of a heavy revolver barrel across his head.

But unfortunately the rifle must have been cocked and the Yaqui’s finger on the trigger, because as the Indian went down the rifle was discharged. Sands vaulted the Indian and made a dash for the front door.

Johnny Wells didn’t know where to go, so he rode straight through Piñon, and was on the street, just beyond Mendez’s place, when he saw the flash and heard the report of the rifle. Swinging his horse in against an adobe wall, he dismounted quickly and came running softly.

As he reached the gate, almost falling over the prostrate Indian, he saw the flash of another gun at the front door of the house and heard the door crash shut. Johnny went running around through the patio, searching for another way into the house.

But there was no door. There was light through a barred window—the window of the room where the women had been kept prisoners. Johnny ran past, but here the wall angled to the right, ending against the wall of the building. Quickly he climbed to the top of the wall, where he could see over the old tile roof.

The main building was of two storeys, and he could see over the roofs to a window, faintly lighted. If he could crawl over the old roof and reach the window, he might get into the house; so he removed his boots, balanced on the top of the wall and made a leap which landed him on the roof.

The wedding ceremony was over. The hideous old priest gave them his blessing, and stepped back, a wide smile showing his toothless gums. Juana and Hal looked at each other foolishly, and Mendez laughed mockingly. “Married,” he chuckled. “And now I kees the bride, me myself personally.”

And before Juana could stop him he had grasped her in his arms and kissed her with his swollen lips. She staggered back, holding a hand over her mouth. Hal threw both arms around her, fearing what else Mendez might do, but at that moment they heard the dull report of a rifle shot.

Mendez jerked back, whirled toward the door. The Gonzales brothers had emptied their quart bottles, and although they jerked to attention, it was evident that they were too muddled to do anything. Miguel dropped his rifle and had difficulty in recovering it.

Another shot, but this time it sounded within the house. Mendez drew one of his two guns and sprang toward the door. Fumblingly Ricardo jerked it open, and a man came into them like a tiger, knocking Ricardo back into Mendez, who dropped his gun and almost fell over backward. Miguel threw up his rifle, but a well-placed kick sent him writhing to the floor.

It was Cal Sands, a heavy revolver in his right hand, blood running down from a cut over one eye. He glanced over the stunned group as he leaned back against the wall for a moment, panting, mouth wide open. Then he relieved Mendez of his guns, kicked the rifle aside, and shut the door.

“Get up, you dog!” he snarled at Mendez, who got slowly to his feet.

“Thank God!” exclaimed Mrs. Austin. “Cal Sands.”

Sands looked at her narrowly. “God ain’t got a thing to do with this,” he panted. “Stay where yuh are—all of yuh. What’s been goin’ on, Mendez?”

“Juana and Hal were just married,” said Mrs. Austin, not waiting for Mendez to answer.

“Juana and Hal?” Sands blinked at this information. His eyes strayed to the gagged figures on the two chairs, and began to understand.

“So Mendez engineered this, eh? Hal, you poor damn fool, that wife of yours is your half-sister.”

“What do you say?” choked Hal. “My half-sister.”

“It’s true, you poor fool. Take the gag off Frank Austin and he’ll tell you it’s true. He married Rosita years ago, and Juana is his daughter. He deserted her to marry you, Mrs. Austin. That’s why he didn’t want you and Rosita to meet. Ask him. Frank knocked down Mendez, and Mendez wanted revenge; so he framed this marriage. Don’t yuh see, he’s gagged both of the parties that knew this. They’d have to watch this marriage. You poor fools, Mendez would have kept you here until after the honeymoon.”

“My God, that can’t be true,” said Mrs. Austin. “Sands, you are lying.”

“I’m not lyin’. Take the gags out of their mouths and they’ll tell you it’s the truth.”

So great was Sands’s triumph that he grew careless, gun hanging at his side. Mendez, staking everything on one quick move, grasped a long-necked bottle from the table, and flung it square against the side of Sands’s head. Sands went down like a pole-axed steer, and a moment later Mendez was again in command of the situation.

Strangely enough, no one seemed to care who was in command. Juana had recovered her voice, and now she said hoarsely:

“Porfiro Mendez, is it true—what Sands said?”

Mendez was the wolf now. Cheated of his prey, he was ready to rend anybody.

“Every word true!” he roared. “Madre de Dios, I’ll keel those guards for let heem in. Every word true. But you think I’m not get even yet? Padre! Pardon, I forgot our padre ’ave no ear. Now we ’ave another wedding.”

His bloodshot eyes stared at Juana, who shrank back from him.

“I no wan’ you,” he growled. “You marry your own brother. I marry Señorita Austin. Ha, ha, ha! That ees good. ’Er father’s firs’ wife was Mejicano; your firs’ ’usband be Mejicano.”

“No, no!” pleaded Betty. “You can’t marry me. Don’t!”

Mendez turned to the blank-faced priest and made a sort of hand talk, to which the padre nodded violently and drew out his little book, taking his former position. Mendez stepped over in front of him, but Betty ran back, throwing herself across the bed. Mendez laughed and turned to Ricardo, owl-eyed from too much tequila.

“Bring her to me,” he ordered.

Ricardo leaned his rifle against the wall and started across the room, very unsteady on his feet, but Hal stepped in front of him.

“Stan’ back,” warned Mendez, covering Hal with his six-shooter. “I jus’ as soon keel you as not.”

Ricardo stopped, looking inquiringly at Mendez.

“Bring her to me, Ricardo,” ordered Mendez in Spanish.

“Is there no way to stop this?” Mrs. Austin moaned weakly.

As though the Deity had answered that question the roof crashed in over Mendez’s head, bringing a shower of dust and plaster, a shower of heavy, broken tile, followed by a heavy body, which seemed to hurtle down, crushing Mendez to the floor and knocking the old priest sidewise under the table.

The heavy body was a man, who seemed to rise up out of the débris, staggered aside, grasping the table for support, but still holding a gun in his right hand. His face was bleeding, where it was not white from the plaster dust, but there was a grim smile on his lips. “They didn’t make these old tile roofs very strong,” he said.

“Johnny Wells!” gasped Hal.

“Hyah, Hal,” grinned Johnny. “What’s the good word?”

“You!” Betty came forward wonderingly. “You came through the roof!”

“Yes’m. Yuh see, I was tryin’ to git to a window up there, but them darned old tiles was kinda crinkly, and I was scared they’d hear me. Goin’ mighty slow, I’ll tell yuh. Wasn’t takin’ no chances on speed. And all to once I reckon I hit a rotten spot.”

Johnny looked around the room. There was Miguel Gonzales over by the door, still doubled up from the effect of Sands’s kick; Sands himself, sprawled face down; Porfiro Mendez, twisted grotesquely under the broken tile and plaster; the bald-headed old priest on hands and knees, peering from under the table, and Ricardo Gonzales, owl-eyed, hands in the air.

“It shore looks to me as though I’d ruined somebody’s party,” said Johnny calmly. He looked at the hole in the roof and chuckled softly.

Somewhere a door banged, a voice spoke loudly. Johnny whirled toward the door, and his gun swung menacingly.

“Been plenty hell raised here all right,” said a voice.

“Goober!” yelled Johnny, and around the edge of the doorway appeared the skinny old face of Goober Glendon. Behind him was Smoky Hill, blinking over the top of Goober’s old sombrero.

“Hyah, Johnny,” said Goober, and they walked carefully in, guns ready.

“We’re kinda late,” said Smoky apologetically. “Yuh see, we had to iron them two jiggers, and then—well, if there ain’t Mr. Sands! Sleepin’ through all this excitement. Imagine that, will yuh?”

“Mendez knocked him down with a bottle,” said Hal.

“And Mr. Mendez, all piled up nicely,” grinned Smoky. “And there’s Dicky Gonzales, givin’ an imitation of a paper-hanger—and no paper. Well, well!”

“The picture is perfect,” agreed Goober dryly. “There’s a dead Injun at the main gate, a couple cripples scattered through the house—and this.”

Goober walked over and looked at Rosita Diaz and Frank Austin.

“We better cut them gags loose,” said Johnny. “I don’t sabe the reason, but they shore look uncomfortable.”

Smoky examined Sands quickly.

“Colder ’n a codfish,” he said.

“Dead?” asked Hal.

“That’s my impression. Saves the expense of a hangin’.”

Goober and Johnny cut away the ropes and gags. Neither Rosita nor Austin was able to talk. Johnny gave Austin a drink of tequila, and it gagged him, but the liquor seemed to take the cramp out of his jaw muscles. Juana was crying over her mother, who was trying to tell her that everything was all right.

“Let’s have a little explanation of some kind,” said Hal. “What is it all about, Smoky? Why does the death of Sands save a hanging?”

“That dirty murderer,” grunted the deputy. “He murdered Terrill and Nolan. Him and Elkinson and Britton was in cahoots with Terrill and his outfit, aided by Nolan, to steal from the Star A. Nolan, as sheriff, inspected and passed on the shipments. When yore dad gave Sands a half interest, he naturally wanted to stop the rustlin’, but the others refused. Don’t yuh git the idea?”

Frank Austin was on his feet, rubbing his lips and jaw. There was nothing wrong with his hearing.

“Is that true?” he whispered.

“The sheriff is takin’ care of Elkinson and Britton,” said Goober. “We got ’em cold.”

“What a fool I’ve been,” muttered Austin.

“Prob’ly the worst I ever seen,” agreed Goober dryly. “You can be more kinds of a damn fool in a short length of time than any man I’ve ever seen, Austin. How’s Mendez, Johnny?”

Johnny Wells shook his head as he dusted the plaster off his knees.

“I don’t reckon there’s any alcalde in Piñon to-night, Goober. He must have been kinda brittle, because there wasn’t more than forty pounds of them old tiles, and I only weigh about a hundred and seventy pounds.”

“Is he—is he dead?” whispered Rosita.

“I’m sorry, but he is—yes, ma’am,” replied Johnny.

Mrs. Austin had recovered some of her natural poise, and now she came to her husband; but he did not look up at her.

“Frank, is all this true?” she asked. “Did Sands tell the truth?”

“Yes, he told the truth, Laura. I—I believe I’d have sold my soul to the devil to prevent you from finding it out. It’s true. Rosita Diaz is my wife. There has never been a divorce that I know about. There was a baby coming when I ran away. Why go any further? I guess I’m as bad as Sands. I don’t ask anybody to forgive me. But thank God things turned out as they did. Mendez knew. He tried to blackmail me, and I struck him. This was his revenge—to force Rosita and me to watch that wedding.”

Mrs. Austin shook her head sadly. “Frank, you could have told me. What misery it would have saved.”

“I know. I can see that now. And like a fool I played into Sands’s hands, at the sacrifice of my own son. Well, I’ve made a mess of things, Laura.”

“It’s all right, dad,” said Hal bravely. “You—you just made a mistake.”

“Hal, do you forgive me?”

“We’ve been enemies long enough, dad. We didn’t know—Juana and me. As old Omaha says, it’s hell, but directions says take it.”

Rosita had been saying nothing, her arms around Juana. Mrs. Austin went to her and held out her hand.

“Rosita, you have been done a terrible wrong,” she said. “We will see what can be done to right it.”

Rosita Diaz lifted her head and smiled through her tears. “It is good for Rosita,” she said huskily. “After all these years. But don’t you see, it is all a mistake. That man,” pointing at the crumpled body of Mendez, “is my husband. I am not Rosita—I am Juanita.”

“My God, what are you saying?” croaked Frank Austin.

“It is true. We looked alike. I ran away from Mendez and took refuge with Rosita. He swore to kill me. Rosita’s baby was born, and she and the baby both died.

“No one knew it except her old Indian servant. I—I—God forgive me, I took her name and her home, and buried your wife, Mr. Austin, under the name of Juanita Mendez. For fifty pesos the old nurse bought the baby of a Spanish woman who was dying—that was little Juana. We kept up the deception. No one knew. It was a long time before Mendez came, and he believed Juanita dead. That is the truth, as God is my judge.”

The woman bowed her head and sobbed on Juana’s shoulder, while the rest of them stood around, looking blankly at each other. Hal was the first to recover, and he took Juana in his arms, holding her tightly.

“That marriage stands!” he shouted. “Juana, we’re married!”

“Yuh better not yell,” warned Johnny. “Some of that old tile might jar loose on yore head.”

“He wouldn’t feel it,” grinned Goober, and slapped Frank Austin on the shoulder. “Go hug yore wife, you old sinner. It’s all over, except cleaning up. Give the kids yore blessin’, and let’s go back home.”

“I—I’ll do that gladly, Goober. If I ever try to prevent anythin’ from now on, I hope somebody will shoot me.”

“They will, Frank, and don’tcha forget it.”

Goober turned and looked at Johnny, who was possibly supposed to be shaking hands with Betty; but they were holding instead of shaking, and Betty was thanking him with her eyes for what he had done.

“You must come out to the ranch,” she said. “Dad needs a new foreman now, and you will like the place. Mother and I are going to stay a while. Oh, we may stay months.”

“Shore,” agreed Johnny heartily. “Make yore home down here with us.”

“I guess I’ve got a foreman, Goober,” said Frank.

“Looks thataway,” Goober admitted.

“I’m giving the Star A to Hal, and he needs a foreman.”

“Acts like he needed a keeper, too.”

“He’s got one. I wish you’d tell me how you discovered all these things about Sands and the other two men.”

“Guessed at ’em, mostly. I didn’t have a danged bit of actual proof.”

“What I want to know is, where didja git that letter yuh sent in to Sands, and what was in it,” said Smoky. “My golly, it shore started things.”

Goober took the letter from his pocket and handed it to Smoky, who read it aloud:

“Well, no wonder you had the deadwood on ’em!” snorted Smoky. “This letter would hang the whole works. But where in the devil did you get it?”

“I wrote it a few days ago,” said Goober simply. He reached in his pocket and took out the diamond ring, which he handed to Austin.

“I found that in Tony Riecho’s pocket; I reckon you’ll find the rest of the plunder on Britton. Him and Elkinson got shot up a little, but they confessed.”

Austin shook his head slowly. “Glendon, you’re a wonder.”

“Well,” drawled Goober, “I would not go that far—but I’m young yet.”

They found the horses to transport everybody back to Indian Wells. Sands’s was the only body they took back. They ignored the Gonzales brothers and the old priest, leaving the three of them together. Miguel was still suffering from the kick Sands gave him. As the last hoofbeats died in the distance, Ricardo staggered over to the table, knocked the neck off a bottle, and poured the contents into a huge cut-glass goblet.

“’Ave dreenk, Mike,” he said.

“Dreenk?” groaned Miguel. “My stummick ees outside in. Madre de Dios, w’at a night! Moorder, wedding, and a keek in the belly. Geeve dreenk to the padre.”

But the padre was sneaking out, and Ricardo spat contemptuously as he shifted his glance to the crumpled figure of Mendez, the candlelight flickering on the Lobo’s soiled finery. He lifted the sparkling goblet high.

“W’ere you go, I do not theenk they need alcalde,” he said softly; “but I weesh you luck, Onkle.”

“Good,” said Miguel heartily. “Porfiro was great man, but he bite off more than I can chew. Maybe we can be hones’ men now, Ricardo.”

“At leas’ we can be crooked for ourself,” replied Ricardo.

Up at the little depot of Indian Wells, a sleepy-eyed agent yawned as Goober Glendon wrote out a telegram to the secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, which read:

“That sounds funny,” said the operator.

“It ain’t,” replied Goober dryly, “but you can laugh if yuh feel like it.”

And he went away in the darkness, rattling his old spurs down the street.