"What is it?" And swift on the heels of that, "Is it about Phil?"

"Yes."

"He's in trouble ... again?" she breathed.

He nodded assent. "The boy's out in the pasture. He wants you to send him breakfast."

The dread that was always lying banked in the hearts of herself and her mother found voice. "What has he done now?"

The range-rider chose his words carefully. "There was some trouble—just across the border. He had to shoot ... and a man fell."

Her face mirrored terror. "You mean ... dead?"

"I don't know," he answered gravely.

"Tell me all about it, please,—the circumstances, everything."

"He will tell you himself. I'll just say this—the shooting was forced on him. He fired in self-defense."

She wrung her hands. "I knew ... I knew something dreadful would happen. Mr. Harrison promised me—he said he would look out for Phil."

Steve looked her straight in the eyes. "Harrison's a crook. He's been using your love for Phil as a lever. It's up to you and the boy to shake him off."

A swift, upblazing anger leaped to her face. "How dare you say that! How dare you!"

His blue eyes met her dark, stormy ones quietly and steadily. "I'm telling you the truth. Can't you see he's been leading Phil into deviltry? You're afraid of him, afraid of his influence over the boy. That's why you knuckle down to him."

"I'm not afraid. He's Phil's friend. You're against him just because he—he—"

"Say it, Miss Ruth. Just because he gave me the whaling of my young life. Nothing to that, nothing a-tall. My system can absorb a licking without bearing a grudge. But he ain't on the level. 'Course you'll hate me for saying it, but some one's got to tell you."

"It's none of your business. I dare say it was you that was with Phil when he—when he—got into trouble."

"Yes."

"I thought so." A sob swelled up in her throat. "You come here and make trouble. I do hate you if you want to know."

With that she turned tempestuously and went flying back to the house.

Steve smiled ruefully. He did not know much about women, but he had read somewhere that they were capable of injustice. She had plenty of spirit, anyhow, for all that she looked so demure and shy.



CHAPTER VIII

THE HEAVY GETS HIS TIME

Threewit came to Steve while Cummings was preparing the stage set for a dissolve.

"Wish you'd look over this scenario, Yeager. The old man sent it out to me to see if we can pull off the riding end of it. Scene twenty-seven is the sticker. Here's the idea: You've been thrown from your horse and your foot's caught in the stirrup. You draw your gat to shoot the bronch and it's bumped out of your hand as you're dragged over the rough ground. See? You save your life by wriggling your foot out of your boot. Can it be done without taking too many chances?"

The rider considered. "I reckon it could if a fellow's boot was fixed so he could slip his foot out at the right time. I'll take a whirl at it."

"There's another scene where you save Maisie by jumping from your horse to a wild steer that's pursuing her. You'll have to twist its head and throw the brute after you straddle it."

"All right. When you want to pull it off?"

"We can do the stirrup one to-day, before you go—if you still want to go."

"Got an answer yet from Arixico?"

"Just got it. Mendoza's still alive, but mighty badly hurt. I've sent the kid out to the animal farm. He'll lie low, and they won't find him there."

"I'm still curious about that bunch of cattle we lost. If you can spare me I'll run down and see if old Pasquale hasn't got 'em. It ain't likely we'll ever get hide or hair of 'em, but there's one thing I'd like to find out."

"Still got that notion about Harrison?"

"Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't. Anyhow, folks that are blind can't see. I'll keep my notions in my own fool haid for a while."

"Harrison has some friends across the line. He's going to try and fix it for the kid if they run him down."

"That's fine," commented Yeager dryly. "He sure must have influential friends."

"All ready, Mr. Threewit," called out Cummings.

The director lit a cigar and moved forward to the stage. "Lennox, you're too far up stage. Register fear, Daisy. That's the idea. Now, then, Miss Winters. Keep your eyes on Daisy as you come into the room. No—no—no! That won't do at all."

Yeager left them to their rehearsal troubles and strolled back to his boarding-house. He would not be needed till afternoon.

He spent a half-hour softening the leather of his right boot around the ankle. A man cannot tumble from a running horse, let himself be dragged forty yards, and then slip his foot from the stirrup of a cowpony that has become frightened without taking a big chance. But it was his business to take chances. He always had taken them. And he knew that they could be minimized by careful preparation, expertness, and cool skill of execution.

As it turned out, Yeager had to make his fall twice. The ground selected for the set was a bit of level space just at the foot of a hillside. The rider went down hard on his shoulder at exactly the spot selected, but he had miscalculated slightly and the force of the fall dragged his foot from the boot at once. His calculations worked better at the second attempt. Hanging on by a toe-hold, he was dragged bumping over the rough ground. His revolver came out on schedule time and flew into the air. When Farrar gave the word,—which was at the moment the galloping horse was opposite the camera,—Steve worked his foot free, leaving the boot still clinging to the stirrup.

Yeager got to his feet rather unsteadily. The fall had been an unusually hard one, and it had not helped any to be dragged at full speed over the bumpy ground. Maisie Winters ran forward and slipped an arm around his waist to support him.

"You dandy man! I never did see one so game as you, Steve."

The cowpuncher grinned. He liked Maisie Winters. There was about her a boyish, slangy camaraderie that made for popularity.

"Says the extra to the star, 'Much obliged, ma'am.'"

"You're no extra. In your own line you're as big a star as we've got. I know there isn't a rider in the country like you. You're a jim-dandy."

"He's quite a family pet," contributed Harrison sourly.

Farrar came forward from the camera, his eyes shining. "Some picture, I'll bet. Good boy! You pulled it fine, Steve. Didn't he, Threewit?"

The director nodded. He was wondering how much he would have to raise this young man's salary to hold him from rival companies.

"Sho! I just fell out of the saddle, Frank. Most any one can fall off a horse."

Harrison laughed spitefully. "I saw him do a better fall than that oncet."

Farrar was on the spot. "I saw you do a mighty good one the same day."

"Don't get fresh, young fella, or you'll do more than see one," snarled the heavy.

"Want to beat me up, Chad?" asked Farrar with innocent impudence. "I weigh one hundred and thirty-one pounds when I'm hog fat. How much do you weigh?"

"Cut it out, Frank," ordered Threewit. "I've had about enough of this jangling. If it isn't stopped, some one's going to lose a job. We're here to take pictures. Any one who's got any other idea had better call at the office for his time."

"Meaning me, Mr. Director?" demanded Harrison menacingly.

"Meaning you or anybody else that won't keep the rules I set for the company I run," retorted the director sharply.

"Forget it, Threewit. I'm no kid. Nobody runs me with rules. I do as I please."

"You'll not make trouble in my company."

"You ain't any little tin god on wheels. Don't run away with that idee in your bean. I haven't seen any man yet that can lay onto me without getting his hair curled for him. Me, I play my own hand, by God; and I don't care whether it's against Mr. Yeager or Mr. Farrar—or Mr. Threewit. See?"

"Your pay is waiting for you, Harrison."

"What? How's that?" he snarled.

"You're discharged—no longer working for the Lunar Company."

Harrison's face became an apoplectic purple. He stood with clenched fists glaring at the director, ready to explode with rage. It was a part of his vanity that he had not supposed for an instant that Threewit would let him go.

But it happened that the director had a temper of his own. He had chafed long enough under the domineering ways of the ex-prizefighter. Moreover, Harrison was no longer so essential to the company. Yeager was a far better rider and could register more effectively the feats of horsemanship that were a feature of the Lunar films. Billie Threewit had known for some time that this man was an element of disorganization in the company. Therefore he was letting him go.

Steve stood quietly in the background, one arm thrown carelessly across the neck of his pony. But his gaze did not lift from the heavy, who stood glaring at the director, his fingers working and head thrust low on the deep chest so that the gorilla hunch was emphasized. The man's black eyes snapped with a blazing fire that seemed ready to leap like a crouched tiger.

"Through with me, are you? Going to use that grand-stander Yeager instead, I reckon. That's the game, is it?"

"I'm not discussing my plans with you."

"Ain't you? Well, I'll discuss mine to this extent. I'll make you sick of this day's work all right before I'm through with you. Get that? Plumb sick." His eyes traveled around the half-circle till they met those of Yeager. "You'll get yours too, my friend. Believe me. Get it a-plenty. You're going to sweat blood when I git you hog-tied."

He turned away, flung himself on his horse, and dug the rowels into the sides of the animal savagely.

Farrar laughed nervously. "Exit Mr. Chad Harrison, some annoyed."

Steve looked gravely at his employer. "Sorry you tied that can on him, Mr. Threewit. He's not just the man I'd choose for an enemy if I was picking one."

"Had to do it sometime. The sooner the quicker. Anyhow, he hasn't got it in for me as much as he has for you."

Yeager shrugged. "Oh, me. That's different. 'Course he hates me thorough, but I'm sorry you got mixed in it."

"What difference does it make? He can't hurt me any." The director clapped his hands briskly. "All over at the willows for the kid-finding scene. Got your location picked, Farrar?"



CHAPTER IX

GABRIEL PASQUALE

A red-hot cannon ball was flaming high in the heavens when Yeager drew out of Los Robles at a road gait. The desert winds were whispering good-night to the sun as he crossed Dry Sandy just above the Sinks. Many dusty miles in Sonora had been clipped off by Four Bits before the chill moon rose above the black line of the distant hills and flooded a transformed land with magical light, touching a parched and arid earth to a vibrant and mysterious beauty of whispering yucca and fantastic cactus and weird outline of mesquite.

Twice he unsaddled the bronco, hobbled it, and lay on his back with his face to the million stars of night. The first time he gave Four Bits an hour's rest and grazing. It was midnight when he dismounted at a water-hole gone almost dry under many summer suns. Here he slept the heavy, restful sleep of healthy, fatigued youth, arms and legs sprawling, serene and peaceful, unmoving as a lifeless log.

With the first faint streaks of dawn that came flooding into the eastern sky he was afoot, knocking together such breakfast as a rider of the plains needs. Presently he was once more in the saddle, pushing across the tawny, empty desert toward the hills that hid Noche Buena, the village where Pasquale had his headquarters.

The smell of breakfast and the smoke of it were in the air when he rode into the street lined with brown adobe huts. The guards paid no attention to him. Gringos evidently were no unusual sight to the troopers of the insurgent chief. Most of these were wearing blue denim suits of overall stuff, though a few were clad in khaki. All carried bright-colored handkerchiefs around their necks. Serapes, faded and bright, of all hues and textures, were in evidence everywhere.

He stopped a boy in riding-boots reaching to his hips, down the sides of which were conchas of silver dollars. Like most of those in camp the face upturned to that of Yeager was of a strong Indian cast.

The American inquired where the general might be found.

The boy—Steve judged him not over fifteen, and he was to find many soldiers in camp younger even than this—pointed to a square two-story house near the center of the town.

Two sentries were on guard outside. One of these went inside with the message of Yeager. Presently he returned, relieved the American of his revolver, and announced that the general would see him.

Pasquale was at breakfast with one of his lieutenants, a slender young man with black sleek hair who sat with his back to the door. From the first moment that his eyes fell upon that lithe, graceful figure the American knew that presently he would be looking into the face of Ramon Culvera. A chill shudder passed through him for an instant. If the gambler recognized him he was lost.

But as yet Culvera had not taken the trouble to turn. He was eating a banana indolently and stray Gringos did not greatly interest him.

"You want to see me, senor," demanded Pasquale in Spanish.

"I'm out of a job—thought maybe you could give me something to do. I met Tom Neal. He figured you might."

"In the army? Do you want to fight?"

Pasquale leaned back in his chair and looked at his guest from narrowed eyes that expressed intelligent energy and brutality. He was smiling, but there was something menacing even about his smile. It struck Steve that he was as simple, as natural, and about as humane as a wolf. He was not tall, but there was unusual breadth and depth to his shoulders. Something of the Indian was in the high cheekbones of his rough, unshaven, coffee-colored face. The old ruffian looked what he was, a terrible man, one who could brush out a human life as lightly as he did the ash from his cigar.

"I don't know. Perhaps. Can you give me a commission?"

"Hmp!" The beadlike eyes of the bandit took in shrewdly the competence of this quiet, brown-faced man. He might be a thief and a murderer,—very likely was since he had crossed the border to join the insurgents,—but it was a safe bet that he had the fighting edge. Men of this particular stripe were needed to lick his tattered, nondescript recruits into shape. "Where you from? Who knows you?"

Culvera slewed round in his seat and glanced at the man standing behind his chair. The indifference did not fade out of his eyes.

"I've been with the Lunar Film Company. Before that I was riding for the Lone Star cattle outfit," answered Yeager.

The younger Mexican showed a flicker of interest. "The Lunar Film Company? Do you know a man named Harrison, senor?"

"Yes."

"And a boy named Pheelip Seymour?"

"I've just met him. He doesn't work for the company."

Culvera turned to his chief. "It is this Pheelip that shot Mendoza, he and another Gringo."

Pasquale nodded, still watching Yeager.

"Know any military tactics?" he asked.

"None—except to hit the other fellow first and hit him hardest."

"And to hit him when he isn't looking. Those three things are all there is to know about war—those three, and to keep your men fat." Pasquale's momentary grin faded. "I'll give you a try-out for a week. If we like each other we'll talk turkey about a commission. Eh, senor?"

"Go you one. If we ain't suited we part company at the end of a week."

The noted insurgent leader spoke English as well as he did Spanish. Sometimes he talked in one language, sometimes in the other. Now he relapsed into Spanish and asked Yeager to join them at breakfast.

The cowpuncher sat down promptly. It had been three hours since he had eaten lightly and he was as hungry as a Yukon husky. He observed that Culvera's table manners were nice and particular, whereas those of his chief, though they ate off silver taken from the home of a Federal supporter during a raid, were uncouth in the extreme. He wolfed his food, throwing it into his mouth from knife or fork as rapidly as he could.

Glancing up from his steak, Steve observed the brooding eye of Culvera upon him. Faint suspicions, recollections too vague as yet for definiteness, were beginning to stir in the mind of the man. He had taken on the look of wariness, masked by a surface smile, that his face had worn the night of the shooting.

Yeager's talk flowed on, easy, careless, unperturbed. His stories were amusing Pasquale, and the old ruffian had a fondness for anybody that could entertain him. But back of his debonair gayety Steve nursed a growing unease. He was no longer dressed in the outfit of a cowpuncher, but wore a gray street suit and a Panama straw hat. Culvera had caught only a momentary glance at him the night they had faced each other revolver in hand. Yet the American was morally convinced that given time recognition would flash upon the young Mexican. Some gesture or expression would betray him. Then the fat would be in the fire. And Steve—where would he be?

After breakfast Yeager rode out with Pasquale to review the troops. It was an entirely informal proceeding. The youthful army was happily engaged in loafing and in play. A bugle blew. There was an instant scurry for horses. They swung into line, stood at attention, and at a second blast charged yelling across the plain, serapes flying wild.

Pasquale turned to Yeager with a gesture of his hand. "They are mine, body and soul. They eat, sleep, starve, and die at my word. Is it not so?"

The charging line had wheeled and was coming back like the distant roll of thunder. "Viva Pasquale!" they shouted as they galloped. Steve had a momentary qualm lest they charge over him and their chief, but the tough little horses were dragged to a halt five yards from them in a great cloud of dust. Bullets zipped into the air in their wild enthusiasm. Wild whoops and cheers increased the tumult.

"Looks that way," agreed the American.

Returning to the village, Steve observed a bunch of cattle a hundred yards from the trail. A Mexican lad, half asleep, was herding them. Immediately a devouring curiosity took hold of the cowpuncher. He wanted to see the brand on those cattle. It struck him that the shortest way was the quickest. He borrowed the field-glasses of Pasquale.

As he lowered the glasses after looking through them, Yeager laughed. "Funny how things come out. In this country cattle are like chips in a poker game. They ain't got any home, I reckon."

"Meaning, senor?" suggested the insurgent chief.

"Meaning that less than a week ago I paid a perfectly good check of the Lunar Company for that bunch of steers. We did aim to use them in some roundup sets, but I expect you've got another use for them."

"Si, senor."

"Hope Harrison held you up for a good price," suggested the American casually.

Pasquale showed his teeth in a grin. "He was some anxious to unload in a hurry—had to take the market he could find handy."

"Looks like he was afraid the goods might spoil on his hands," Steve commented dryly.

"Maybeso. I didn't ask any questions and he didn't offer any explanations. Fifteen gold on the hoof was what I agreed to pay. Were you in on this with Harrison?"

"I was and I wasn't. Me, I drove that bunch 'most forty miles, then he held me up and took the whole outfit from me."

Pasquale saw he had made a mistake and promptly lied. "It wasn't Harrison I got them from at all—just wanted to see what you'd say."

"Well, they didn't cost me a red cent. You're welcome to 'em as far as I'm concerned. Slow elk suits me fine. I'll help you eat them while I'm here, and that will be a week anyhow."

"You're a good sport, Yeager, as you Gringos say. We'll get along like brothers. Not so?"

The revolutionary chief was an incessant card-player. He had a greasy pack out as soon as they reached camp. Steve was invited to take a hand, also Ramon Culvera and a fat, bald-headed Mexican of fifty named Ochampa. Culvera, playing in luck, won largely from his chief, who accepted his run of ill fortune grouchily. Pasquale had been a peon in his youth, an outlaw for twenty years, and a czar for three. He was as much the subject of his own unbridled passions as is a spoiled and tyrannous child. Yeager, studying him, was careful to lose money with a laugh to the old despot and equally careful to see that the chips came back to him from Ochampa's side of the table.

The cowpuncher knew fairly well the political rumors that were afloat in regard to the situation in northern Mexico. Pasquale as yet was dictator of the revolutionary forces, but there had been talk to the effect that Ramon Culvera was only biding his time. Other ambitious men had aspired to supplant Pasquale. They had died sudden, violent deaths. Ramon had been a great favorite of the dictator, but it was claimed signs were not lacking to show that a rupture between them was near. Watching them now, Yeager could well believe that this might be true. Culvera was suave, adroit, deferential as he raked in his chief's gold, but the irritability of the older man needed only an excuse to blaze.

A blue-denim trooper came into the room and stood at attention.

Pasquale nodded curtly.

"Senor Harrison to see the general," said the private in Spanish.

A chill ran down the spine of the American. This was the last place in the world that he wanted to meet Chad Harrison. A swift vision of himself standing with his back to a wall before a firing line flashed into his brain.

But he was in for it now. He knew that the ex-prizefighter would denounce him. A daredevil spirit of recklessness flooded up in his heart. A smile both gay and sardonic danced in his eyes. Thus does untimely mirth in the hour of danger drive away a sober, prayerful gravity from the mien of such light-hearted sons of nature as Stephen Yeager.



CHAPTER X

A NIGHT VISIT

Harrison stood blinking in the doorway, having just come out from the untempered sunlight in the street. He shook hands with the general, with Culvera, and then his glance fell upon the American.

"Fine glad day, ain't it?" Yeager opened gayly. "Great the way friends meet in this little old world."

"What are you doing here?" demanded the prizefighter, his chin jutting forward and down.

"Me! I'm losing my wad at stud. Want to stake me?"

Harrison turned to Pasquale. "Know who he is? Know anything about him, general?"

"Only what he has told me, senor."

"And that is?"

"That he worked for the moving-picture company at Los Robles, that he is out of a job, and that he wants to try the revolutionary game, as you Americans say."

"Don't you believe it. Don't believe a word of it," broke out Harrison stormily. "He's a spy. That's what he is."

Smiling, Steve cut in. "What have I come to spy about, Harrison?"

"You told Threewit that you thought General Pasquale had those cattle. You may deny it, but—"

"Why should I deny it?" Yeager turned genially to the insurgent chief. "You don't deny it, do you, general?"

Pasquale laughed. He liked the cheek of this young man. "I deny nothing and I admit nothing." He swept his hand around in a gesture of indifference. "My vaqueros herd cattle I have bought. Possibly rustlers sold them to me. Maybeso. I ask no questions."

"Nor I," added Yeager promptly. "At least, not many. I eat the beef and find it good. You ought to have got a good price for a nice fat bunch like that, Harrison."

"What d'you mean by that?" The man's fists were clenched. The rage was mounting in him.

"Forget it, Harrison! You've quit the company. You're across the line and among friends. No use keeping up the bluff. I know who held me up. If I'm not hos-tile about it, you don't need to be."

The prizefighter flung at him the word of insult that no man in the fighting West brooks. Before Steve could speak or move, Pasquale hammered the table with his heavy, hairy fist.

"Maldito!" he roared. "Is it so you talk to my friends in my own house, Senor Harrison?"

The rustler, furious, turned on him. But even in his rage he knew better than to let his passion go. The insurgent chief was more dangerous than dynamite in a fire. Purple with anger, Harrison choked back the volcanic eruption.

"Friend! I tell you he's a spy, general. This man killed Mendoza. He's here to sell you out."

The sleek black head of Culvera swung quickly round till his black eyes met the blue ones of Yeager. He flung his hand straight out toward the Anglo-Saxon.

"Mil diablos! What a dolt I am. It's the very man, and I've been racking my brain to think where I met him before."

Yeager laughed hardily. "I've got a better memory, senor. Knew you the moment I set eyes on you, though it was some smoky when we last met."

Culvera rose, his knuckles pressing against the table. There was a faint smile of triumph, on his masked, immobile face.

"Farewell, Senor Yeager," he said softly. "After all, it's a world full of hardship and unpleasantness. You're well rid of it."

Steve knew his sole appeal lay in Pasquale. Ochampo was a nonentity. Both Harrison and Culvera had already condemned him to death. He turned quietly to the insurgent leader.

"How about it, general? Do I get a pass to Kingdom Come—because I stood by a half-grown kid when two blacklegs were robbing him?"

"You shot Mendoza, eh?" demanded Pasquale, his heavy brows knit in a frown.

"No; I helped the boy escape who did."

"You were both employed by the enemy to murder him and Culvera—not so?"

"Nothing of the sort. Young Seymour was in a poker game with Culvera and Mendoza. They were cross-lifting him—and playing with a cold deck at that. I warned the kid. They began shooting. I could have killed either of them, but I blew out the lights instead. In self-defense the boy shot Mendoza. We escaped through the door. The trouble was none of our seeking."

Culvera shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands in a gesture of bland denial. "Lies! All lies, general. Have I not already told you the truth?"

Coldly Pasquale pronounced judgment. "What matter which one shot Mendoza. Both were firing. Both escaped together. Both are equally guilty." He clapped his hands. A trooper entered. "'Tonio, get a guard and take this man to prison. See that he is kept safe. To-morrow at dawn he will be shot."

The trooper withdrew. Pasquale continued evenly. "We have one rule, Senor Yeager. He who kills one of us is our enemy. If we capture him, that man dies. Fate has shaken the dice and they fall against you. So be it. You pay forfeit."

Yeager nodded. He wasted no breath in useless protest against the decision of this man of iron. What must be, must. A plea for mercy or for a reversal of judgment would be mere weakness.

"If that's the way you play the game there's no use hollering. I'll take my medicine, because I must. But I'll just take one little flyer of a guess at the future, general. If you don't put friend Culvera out of business, it will presently be, 'Good-night, Pasquale.' He's a right anxious and ambitious little lieutenant, I shouldn't wonder."

Harrison triumphed openly. He followed out of the house the file of soldiers who took his enemy away.

"Told you I'd git even a-plenty, didn't I?" he jeered. "Told you I'd make you sweat blood, Mister Yeager. Good enough. You'll see me in a box right off the stage to-morrow morning when the execution set is pulled off. Adios, my friend!"

The cowpuncher was thrust into a one-room, flat-roofed adobe hut. The door was locked and a guard set outside. The prison had for furniture a three-legged stool and a rough, home-made table. In one corner lay a couple of blankets upon some straw to serve for a bed. The walls of the house, probably a hundred years old at least, were of plain, unplastered adobe. The fireplace was large, but one glance up the narrow chimney proved the futility of any hope of escape in that direction.

He was caught, like a rat in a trap. Yet somehow he did not feel as if it could be true that he was to be taken out at daybreak and shot. It must be some ridiculous joke Fate was playing on him. Something would turn up yet to save him.

But as the hours wore away the grim reality of his position came nearer home to him. He had only a few hours left. From his pocket he took a notebook and a pencil. It was possible that Pasquale would let him send a letter through to Threewit if it gave some natural explanation of his death, one that would relieve him of any responsibility. Steve tore out a page and wrote, standing under the little shaft of moonlight that poured through the small barred window:—

Fifteen minutes ago [so he wrote] I accidentally shot myself while target-practicing here in camp. They say I won't live more than a few hours. By the courtesy of General Pasquale I am getting a letter through to you, which is to be sent after my death. Give bearer ten dollars in gold.

Say good-bye for me to Frank, Daisy, and the rest. Bust up that marriage if you can.

Adios, my friend. STEVE YEAGER.

He was searching in his pocket for an envelope when there came a sound that held him rigid. Some one was very carefully unlocking the door of his prison from the outside. Stealthily he drew back into the deep shadow at the farther end of the room, picking up noiselessly by one leg the stool by the table. It was possible that some one had been sent to murder him.

The grinding of the key ceased. Slowly the door opened inch by inch. A man's head was thrust through the opening. After a long time of silence a figure followed the head and the door was closed again.

"You may put down that weapon, Senor Yeager. I have not come to knife you."

The lower half of the man's face was covered by a fold of his serape, the upper part was shaded by his sombrero. Only the glittering eyes could be plainly seen.

"Why have you come?"

"To talk with you—perhaps to save you. Quien sabe?"

Yeager put down the stool and gave it a shove across the floor. "Will you take a seat, general? Sorry I can't offer you refreshments, but the truth is I'm not exactly master in my own house."

Pasquale dropped the serape from his face and moved forward. "So you knew me?"

"Yes."

"How much will you give for your life?" demanded the Mexican abruptly, sitting down on the stool with his back to the table.

"As much as any man."

The general eyed him narrowly. One sinewy brown hand caressed the butt of a revolver hanging at his hip.

"Who paid you to murder Culvera and Mendoza—not Farrugia, surely?" Pasquale shot at him, eyes gleaming under shaggy brows.

Garcia Farrugia was the Federal governor of the province, the general with whom Pasquale had been fighting for a year.

"No—not Farrugia."

The insurrecto chief, sprawling in the moonlight with his back against the table, nodded decisively.

"I thought as much. He's no fool. Garcia knows it would not weaken me to lose both of them, that my grief would not be inconsolable. Who, then, if not Farrugia?"

"Nobody. I'm not an assassin. The story I told you is the truth, general."

"If that is true, Ramon Culvera's lies have brought you to your death."

The Mexican still sprawled with an arm flung across the table. Not a muscle of his lax body had grown more taut. But the eyes of the man—the terrible eyes that condemned men to their graves without a flicker of ruth—were fixed on the range-rider with a steady compulsion filled with hidden significance.

"Yes." Steve waited, alert and watchful. Presently he would understand what this grim, virile old scoundrel was driving at.

"You fought him in the open. You played your cards above the table. He comes back at you with a cold deck. Senor, do you love Ramon like a brother?"

"Of course not. If I could get at him before—"

The rigor of the black eyes boring into those of Yeager did not relax. The impact of them was like steel grinding on steel.

"Yes? If you could get at him? What, then, senor?"

The words were hissed across the room at the American. Pasquale was no longer lounging. He leaned forward, body tense and rigid. His prisoner understood that an offer for his life was being made him. But what kind of an offer? Just what was he to do?

"Say it right out in plain United States talk, general. What is it you want me to do?"

"Would you kill Ramon Culvera—to save your own life?"

After barely an instant's hesitation Steve answered. "Yep. I'll fight him to a finish—any time, any place."

"Bueno! But there will be no risk for you. He will be summoned from his house to-night. You will stand in the darkness outside. One thrust of the knife and—you will be avenged. A saddled horse is waiting for you now in the cottonwood grove opposite. Before we get the pursuit started you will be lost in the darkness miles away."

The heart of Yeager sank. The thing he was being asked to do was plain murder. Even to save his own life he could not set his hand to such a contract.

"I can't do that, general. But I'll pick a quarrel with him. I'll take a chance on even terms."

"No—no!" Pasquale's voice was harsh and imperative. "The dog is plotting my murder. But first he wants to make sure he is strong enough to succeed me. So he waits. But I—Gabriel Pasquale—I wait for no man's knife. I strike first—and sure. You execute the traitor and save your own life which is forfeit. Caramba! Are you afraid?"

"Not afraid, but—"

"You walk out of that door a free man. You give the password for to-night. It is 'Gabriel.' You settle with the traitor and then ride away to safety. Maldito! Why hesitate?"

"Because I'm a white man, general. We don't kill in the dark and run away. When I offer to fight him to a finish I go the limit—and then some. For I don't hate Culvera that bad. But I think a heap of Steve Yeager's life, so I'll stand pat on my proposition."

"Am I a fool, senor?" asked the Mexican harshly. "How do I know you would keep faith, that you would not ride away—what you call laugh in your sleeve at me? No! You will strike under my own eye—with my revolver at your heart. Then I make sure."

"I'll bet you'd make sure. You'd shoot me down and explain it all fine when your men came running. 'The Gringo dog escaped and killed my dear friend Ramon, but by good luck I shot him before he made his getaway.' Nothing doing."

"Then you refuse?" Pasquale's narrowed eyes glittered in the moonshine.

"You're right I do."

The Mexican rose. "Die like a dog, then, you pigheaded Gringo."

"Just a moment, general. I've got a letter here I wish you'd send north for me. It explains that I shot myself accidentally—lets you out fine in case Uncle Sam begins to ask inconvenient whys about my disappearance."

"And why so much care to save me trouble?" inquired the insurgent leader suspiciously.

"I have to put that in to get you to forward the letter, I reckon. What I want is that my friends should know I'm dead."

As a soldier Pasquale could understand that desire. He hesitated. The sudden death of Americans had of late stirred a good deal of resentment across the line. Why not take the alibi Yeager so conveniently offered him?

"Let's see your letter. But remember I promise nothing," said the Mexican roughly.

Steve moved forward and gave it to him. His heart was pounding against his ribs as does that of a frightened rabbit in the hand. If Pasquale looked at the letter now he had a chance. If he put it in his pocket the chance vanished.

The rebel chief glanced at the sheet of paper, opened it, and stepped back into the moonlight. For just an instant his eyes left Yeager and fell upon the paper. That moment belonged to Steve. Like a tiger he leaped for the hairy throat of the man.

Pasquale, with a half-articulate cry, stumbled back. But the American was on top of him, his strong, brown fingers were tightening on the sinewy throat. They went down together, the Mexican underneath. As he fell, the head of the general struck the edge of the table. The steel grip of Steve's hand did not relax, for a single sharp cry would mean death to him.

Just once Pasquale rolled half over before his body went slack and motionless. He had fainted.

The first thing Yeager did was to take the bandanna handkerchief from his neck and use it as a gag for his prisoner. He dragged the blankets from their corner and tore one of them into strips. With these he bound the hands of Pasquale behind him and tied his feet together. He unloosened the revolver belt of the Mexican and strapped it about his own waist. The silver-trimmed sombrero he put on his head and the serape he flung round his shoulders and across the lower part of his face in the same way the garment had been worn by its owner.

Steve glanced around to see that he had everything he needed.

"They's no manner o' doubt but you're taking a big chancet, son," he drawled to himself after the manner of an old range-rider he knew. "But we sure gotta take a long shot and gamble with the lid off. Any man who stops S. Yeager to-night is liable to find him a bad hombre. So-long, general."

He opened the door and stepped out. His heart was jumping queerly. The impulse was on him to cut across to the cottonwood grove on the dead run, but he knew this would never do. Instead, he sauntered easily into the moonlight with the negligence of one who has all night before his casual steps.

The sharp command of the guard outside slackened his stride.

"Gabriel," he called back over his shoulder without stopping.

"Si, senor. Buenos tardes."

"Buenos."

He moved at a leisurely pace down the street until he was opposite the cottonwoods. Here he diverged from the dusty road.

"Hope the old scalawag wasn't lying about that cavallo waiting for Steve. I'm plumb scairt to death till I get out of this here wolf's den. Me, I'm too tender to monkey with any revolutions. I've knowed it happen frequent that a man got his roof blowed off for buttin' in where he wasn't invited." He was still impersonating the old cowman as a vent to his excitement, which found no expression in the cool, deliberate motions of his lithe body.

He found the horse in the cottonwoods as Pasquale had promised. Swinging to the saddle, he cantered down the road to the outskirts of the village. A sentinel stopped him, and a second time he gave the countersign. He was just moving forward again when some one emerged from the darkness back of the sentry and sharply called to him to stop.

Steve knew that voice, would have known it among a thousand. Since he had no desire at this moment to hold a conversation with Ramon Culvera he drove his heels into the side of the cow pony. The horse leaped forward just as a revolver rang out. So close did the shot come to Yeager that it lifted the sombrero from his head as he dodged.

After he was out of range Yeager laughed. "Pasquale gets his hat back again—ventilated. Oh, well, it's bad enough to be a horse-thief without burglarizing a man's haberdashery. You're sure welcome to it, Gabriel."

He kept the horse at a gallop, for he knew he would be pursued. But his heart was lifted in him, for he was leaving behind him a shameful death. All Sonora lay before him in which to hide, and in front of him stretched a distant line beyond which was the U.S.A. and safety.

The bench upon which he was riding dropped to a long roll of hills stretching to the horizon. The chances were a hundred to one that among these he would be securely hidden from the pursuit inside of an hour.

"Git down in yore collar to it, you buckskin," he urged his pony cheerfully. "This ain't no time to dream. You got to travel some, believe me. Steve played a bum hand for all it was worth and I can see where he's right to hit the grit some lively. Burn the wind, you buzzard-haid."

An hour later he drew his pony to a road gait and lifted his head to the first faint flush of a dawning day. He sang softly, because by a miracle of good fortune that coming sun brought him life and not death. The song he caroled was, "When Gabriel blows his horn in the mawnin'."



CHAPTER XI

CHAD DECIDES TO GET BUSY

After his failure to stop Yeager's escape, Culvera lost no time before starting a party in pursuit. He knew there was small chance of finding the American in that rolling sea of hills, but there was at least no harm in making the attempt.

As he walked to Pasquale's headquarters to make a report of the affair, Culvera's mind was full of vague suspicions. How had this man escaped? Had the old general freed him for some purpose of his own? Ramon had seen condemned prisoners released by his chief before. Always within a short time some enemy or doubtful friend of Pasquale had died a violent death. Was it his turn now? Could it be that Pasquale was anticipating his treachery?

To learn that the general was out at three o'clock in the morning lent no reassurance to his fears. After a moment's consideration the young man turned his steps toward the house where Yeager had been confined. But before starting he stopped in the shadow of a barn to see that his revolvers were loose in the scabbards and in good working order. Nor did he cross the moonlit open direct, but worked to his destination by a series of tacks that kept him almost all the time in the darkness.

The seventeen-year-old sentry was still doing duty outside the prison. At sight of Culvera he stopped rolling a cigarette to snatch up his rifle and fling a challenge at him.

"How is it that you have let your prisoner escape?" demanded the officer in Spanish after he had given the countersign.

"Escape? No, senor. Listen. Do you not hear him move?" replied in the boy in the same tongue. "I think the Gringo is having a fit. For ten—twenty—minutes he has beat on the floor and kicked at the walls. To die at daybreak is not to his liking."

"Mil diablos! I tell you I saw him ride away. It is some one else in there."

"Some one else! But, no—that is impossible. Who else could it be?" As he asked the question the boy's jaw fell slack. A horrible suspicion pushed itself into his mind.

"Estupido!" he continued in growing terror. "Can it be—the general?"

"We shall see."

Culvera stepped to the door. It was locked and the key gone. He called aloud. His only answer was a strange, muffled sound like a groan and the beating of feet upon the floor.

With the butt of the sentry's rifle he hammered in the door at the lock and by exerting all his strength forced the fastening. Lying in the middle of the room, bound hand and foot, with his furious face upturned to the moonlight, was Gabriel Pasquale. Culvera asked no foolish questions, wasted no time. Kneeling beside his superior officer, he cut the handkerchief that gagged him and the ropes that tied his limbs. Together Ramon and the guard lifted him to his feet and held him for a moment until his legs regained their power.

"What devil has done this outrage?" asked Ramon.

For a time Pasquale could only swallow and grunt. When the power of speech returned, he broke into fierce and terrible maledictions. His lieutenant listened in silence, extreme concern in his respectful face, an unholy amusement bubbling up behind the deferential exterior.

"Then it was the Gringo?" he asked when his chief ran out of breath and for the moment ceased cursing.

The insurgent leader went off into another explosion of rage. He would cut his heart out while the American devil was still alive. He would stake him out on the desert to broil to death beneath a Mexican sun.

Culvera showed the hat that he had punctured with his bullet. "Thus near I came to avenging you, general. See! One inch lower and I would have taken off the top of his head. Already Fuentes is pursuing him. Perhaps this Yeager may be dragged back to justice."

Culvera asked no questions as to why the general was alone with a condemned man at such an hour nor as to how the American had succeeded in overpowering him. He understood that his chief's wounded vanity was torturing the man enough to render curiosity unsafe. But the boyish sentry did not know this. He ventured on a sympathetic question.

"But, senor, Your Excellency, how did this Gringo devil, who was unarmed, take away your revolver and tie you?"

Pasquale, teeth clenched, whirled upon him. "You—dog of a peon—let your prisoner walk away without a challenge and then dare to question me!"

The old soldier's fist shot out like a pile-driver. The blow lifted the boy from his feet and flung him like a sack of meal against the wall. His body hung there a moment, then dropped to the ground. A faint groan was the only sound that showed he was not unconscious.

The general strode from the room, Culvera at his heels. The brown mask of his face told no stories of how the younger man was enjoying himself.

Before he slept, Ramon had one more pleasant task before him. He roused Harrison to tell him the news. He sat smiling on the foot of the bed, his eyes mocking the startled face of the prizefighter.

"I come to bring you good news, senor," he jeered. "Your countryman has escaped."

Harrison sat up in bed. "What's that? Escaped, did you say? Where to?"

The Mexican swept one arm around airily. "How should I know? He's gone—broke out. He's taken a horse with him."

"A horse!" repeated Harrison stupidly.

"Just so—a horse. To ride upon, doubtless, since he was in somewhat of a hurry. Odd that a horse happened to be waiting saddled for him at two in the morning. Not so?"

The American groped toward the point. "You mean—that he had friends, that some one helped him to get away?"

The other man shrugged his shoulders. "Do I? Quien sabe? Anyhow, he's gone. Must be very disappointing to you, since you had promised yourself to see his translation to heaven at sunrise."

Harrison expressed himself bitterly in language emphatic and profane.

Meanwhile Culvera smiled pleasantly and sympathetically. "You run Pasquale a close second. He cursed the roof off when he found breath."

"I'm not through with Yeager yet. Believe me, he'll have one heluvatime before I'm done," boasted the prizefighter savagely.

"You're still in entire accord with the chief. Yet our friend the Gringo rides away in safety and laughs at you both. Ramon Culvera takes his hat off to Senor Yeager. He has played a winning game with courage and brains."

"I beat his fool head off when he joined the Lunar Company—the very day he joined. When I meet up with him again, I'll repeat," Harrison bragged, hammering the pillow with his clenched fist.

The Mexican looked politely incredulous. "Maybeso. This I say only. Yeager has played one game with Pasquale, one with you, and one with me. He comes out best each time. Of a sureness he is a strong man, wise, cool, resourceful. Is it not so?"

The prizefighter sputtered with wounded vanity. "Him! The boob's nothing but a lucky guy. You'd ought to 'a' seen him after I fixed his map that first day. Down and out he was, take my word for it."

"If Senor Harrison says so," assented Culvera with polite mockery. "But as you say, he laughs best who laughs last. And that reminds me. He left a note to be forwarded a friend. Pasquale was too crazy mad to see it, so I put it in my pocket."

He handed to the other man the note Steve had written for Threewit. The prizefighter read it in the dim light laboriously.

"It was written, you perceive, before Pasquale shoved his big head into a trap and gave him a chance to escape," explained the insurgent officer.

As Harrison read, certain phases of the situation arranged themselves before his dull mind. He was acutely disappointed at the escape of his enemy, since it was not likely the man would ever be caught again so neatly. But now he forced himself to look beyond this to the consequences. Yeager would tell all he knew when he reached Los Robles. With the troopers warned against him Harrison knew he could no longer move to and fro as freely on the American side. The very fact that he was a suspect would greatly hamper his dealings. The Seymours would probably turn against him for betraying the man who had risked his life to save Phil from the effects of his folly. And what about Ruth? He knew he held her by fear of trouble to Phil and by means of a sort of magnetic clamp he had always imposed upon her will. Would she throw him over now after she heard the story of the cowpuncher?

His eyes were still fastened sulkily on the note while he was slowly realizing these things. One line seemed to stand out from the rest.

Bust up that marriage if you can.

Harrison ground his teeth with impotent rage. This range-rider always had interfered with his affairs from the first moment he had met him. If ever he got the chance again to stamp him out—! The strong fingers of the man worked with the nervous longing to tighten on the throat of the gay youth who had worsted him in the duel the prizefighter had forced upon him. The cowpuncher had introduced himself by knocking him down. A few hours later he had turned a bruised and bleeding face up to him and laughed without fear as if it were of no consequence.

Yeager had stolen from him his reputation as a daring rider and a good shot. He had driven him from the Lunar Company. Now he was going back to spoil his plans for making money by rustling American stock and sending contraband goods across the line. Not only that; he was going to take from him the girl he was engaged to marry.

"By God! I'll give him a run for it," the prizefighter announced savagely and suddenly.

"For what?" asked Culvera maliciously.

"My business," retorted Harrison harshly, reaching for his clothes.

Half an hour later he was galloping toward the north. If he could reach Los Robles before Yeager did, he would turn a trick that would still leave the odds in his favor.



CHAPTER XII

INTO THE DESERT

Ruth was baking apple pies in the kitchen. In her eyes there was a smile and there were little dimples near the corners of her mouth. Evidently she was thinking of something pleasant. Her nimble fingers ran around the edge of the upper crust with a fork and scalloped a design. At odd moments she would burst into a little rhapsody of song that appeared to bubble out of her heart.

Some one stepped into the doorway and shut out the sunlight. Her questioning glance lifted, to meet the heavy frown of the man to whom she was engaged. At sight of him the sunshine was extinguished from her face, just as it had seemed to be from the room when his broad shoulders had filled the opening.

"You—Chad!" she cried. "I thought—"

"Well, I ain't. I'm here," he broke in roughly. "And you don't look glad to death to see me either."

Her gentle eyes reproached him. "You're always welcome. You know that."

His harsh face softened a little as he stepped forward and kissed her. "Maybe I do, but maybe I like to hear you say so. Girl, I've come to take you with me."

"With you? Where?" Alarm was in the eyes that flashed to meet his.

"To Noche Buena."

"But—what for?"

"Ain't it reason enough that I want you to go? We can get married at Arixico to-night."

She broke into protest disjointed and a little incoherent. "You promised me that—that I could have all the time I wanted. You said—you said—"

"That was when I was here to look after you. But I'll be staying in Sonora quite a while the way my business affairs look. I need you—and what's the sense of waiting, anyhow?"

"No—no! I don't want to—not now. Please don't ask it, Chad, I—I don't want to get married—yet."

Sobs began to choke up her voice. Tears welled up in her eyes.

"I don't see why you don't," he insisted sullenly. "Ain't trying to back out, are you?"

"No, but—"

"You better not," he retorted with a threatening look. "I ain't the kind of man it's safe to jilt."

"You promised me all the time I wanted," she repeated. "You wouldn't hurry me. That was what you said," she sobbed, breaking down suddenly.

"All right," he conceded ungraciously. "I'm not forcing you to marry me now. But I thought it best, seeing as I've got to ask you to go with me, anyhow. O' course I can put you in charge of Carmen to chaperon you. She's the woman that keeps house for Pasquale. But it kinder seemed to me it would be better if you went as my wife. Then I could take care of you."

"Go with you—now? What do you mean, Chad?"

"It's this fellow Yeager. He's shot himself, and he wants to see you before he dies." From his pocket he took the note Steve had written to Threewit and handed it to Ruth. "You don't have to go, but I hate to turn down a fellow when he's all in and ready to quit the game."

She read the note, her face like chalk. Not for a moment did she doubt that the cowpuncher had written it. Even if her mind had harbored any vague suspicions one line in the letter would have swept them away. Bust up that marriage if you can. She knew to what marriage he referred. Nobody but Yeager could have written those words.

"But he says—he says"—her voice shook, but she forced herself to go on—"that this letter isn't to be sent until his death."

"Yep. So it does. But he got to asking for you. So I just lit out to give you a chance to go if you want to. It's up to you. Do just as you please."

"Of course I'll go. Is he—is he as bad as he says?"

"Pretty bad, the doc says. But I reckon he's good for a day or two. My advice would be to start right away, though, if you want to see him alive."

"Yes. That would be best. I'll see mother now." She stopped at the door and leaned against the jamb a little faintly, then turned toward him. "It was fine of you to come, Chad. I know you don't like him. But—I won't forget."

"Oh, tha's all right," he mumbled.

"Have you seen Mr. Threewit yet?" she asked.

"Threewit—no." He was for a moment puzzled at her question. "No—he's out getting a set somewheres in the hills."

Ruth came back and took the note from Harrison's reluctant fingers. "He ought to get this at once. I'll send Billie Brown out with it. He'll explain to Mr. Threewit about us going on ahead and not waiting for him."

The prizefighter did not quite like the idea. He would rather have kept the note himself and burnt it later. But it was out of his charge now. Without stirring doubts he could not make any objection. Anyhow, he would be in Sonora and safely married to Ruth long before the deception was discovered.

Mrs. Seymour made her protest against such an unconventional trip, but Ruth rode her objections down after the fashion of American girls.

"Why can't I go for a ride with the man to whom I'm engaged? What's wrong with it? I'll stay with the lady that keeps house for General Pasquale. In two or three days I'll be back. Don't say no, mommsie." Her voice broke a little as she pleaded the cause. "He's dying—Mr. Yeager is—and he wants to see me. I'd always blame myself if I didn't go. I've just got to go."

"I don't see why you have to go riding all over the country to see one man when you're engaged to another. In my time—"

"If Chad doesn't object, why should you?"

"Oh, I know you'll go. I suppose it's all right, but I wish Phil could go with you too."

"So do I, but of course he can't. Chad says that affairs are so disturbed across the line that probably the Government won't make Phil any trouble, but that if he showed himself in Sonora some of the friends of that man Mendoza would be sure to kill him."

"I suppose so." Mrs. Seymour sighed. Her harum-scarum young son was on her mind a good deal. "Now, don't you fret, honey, about Steve Yeager. He's the kind of man that will take a lot of killing. A man who has lived outdoors in the saddle for a dozen years is liable to get over a wound that would finish some one else."

In his haste to reach Los Robles before Yeager the prizefighter had ruined the horse he rode. He picked up another one cheap and got for Ruth her brother's pony. Within an hour of his arrival the two animals were brought round for the start.

The mother, still a little troubled in her mind, took Harrison aside for a last word.

"Chad Harrison, you look after my little girl and see no harm comes to her. If anything happens to her I'll never forgive you."

"Rest easy about that, Mrs. Seymour. You don't think any more of Ruth than I do. If I thought there was any danger I sure wouldn't take her. She'll come back to you safe and sound," he promised.

They rode away in the afternoon sunlight toward the south. It had been understood that they were to spend the night at the Lazy B Ranch, but at the point where the road for the ranch deflected from the main pike Harrison drew rein.

"Too bad there isn't another ranch farther on. It's a little better than six o'clock now. We'll lose a heap of time by stopping here. Soon the moon will be out and we could keep going till we reach Lone Tree Spring. Stopping there for two or three hours' rest, we could ride in to Noche Buena by breakfast time. But I reckon you're tired, ain't you?"

"I'm not—not a bit," she answered eagerly. "Let's go on. It's cooler traveling in the evening, anyhow."

He appeared to hesitate, then shook his head. "No—o, I expect that wouldn't be proper. If you was a boy instead of a girl I'd say sure."

"Don't let's be silly, Chad," she pleaded. "We want to get there as soon as we can. It makes no difference if I am a girl."

"I promised your maw I'd take good care of you. Would it be doing that to let you stay up 'most all night?"

"Of course it would. We can sleep some at Lone Tree. I want to go on, Chad."

"All right," he conceded with a manner of reluctance.

This was what Harrison desired. If Yeager reached Los Robles before night a search party would be sent out. It would go straight toward the Lazy B. Chad wanted to get across the line and put as many miles as possible between him and the pursuit.

Deep into the desert they struck, keeping for the most part to a rapid road gait. The dusty miles spun out behind them as they covered white sunbaked levels, cut across rough hillsides of rubble, dipped into sandy washes, and wound forward through wastes of cactus and zacaton.

By the time the moon was riding high in the heavens Ruth was very tired. Her shoulders drooped and she clung to the pommel of the saddle. But she did not ask Chad to stop and let her rest. She would rather have been whipped than have confessed exhaustion. Whenever she thought he might be looking at her, the weary shoulders straightened with a pathetic attempt at jauntiness.

The man knew how completely fagged she was. Riding behind her through the silver night, his greedy eyes noted her game struggle not to give in. He saw the flowing lines of the girlish figure relax with fatigue. No longer was the gallant little dusky head poised lightly above the flat straight back. But he made no offer to rest. It was essential that they should get beyond any chance of capture by her friends. Once he had her safely in his hands she might sleep round the clock undisturbed.

It was midnight before they rode into the cottonwoods of Lone Tree Spring. Chad lifted her, stiff and cold from lack of circulation, to the ground. She clung to his coat sleeve for a moment dizzily before she limped forward to the live-oak that gave the place its name. The girl sank down beside the water-hole with her back to the trunk of the tree.

There was faint, humorous apology in the tired smile she lifted to the man.

"I guess I'm what the boys call a quitter, Chad," she decided.

"You're a game little thoroughbred," he blurted out. "You're all in. That's what's the matter with you. Never mind, little girl. I'll fix the tarps so as you can get some sleep. When you wake you'll be good as ever."

"Don't let me sleep too long. Perhaps I'd better just rest."

"No; take a couple of hours' sleep. I'll wake you when it's time to go."

He brought the saddle blankets, spread them on the ground, and covered them with his slicker. His coat served for a pillow. Above her he spread a tarp and tucked the edges under.

"You're good to me, Chad," she told him with a sleepy little smile.

"I aim to be." He stooped and kissed her with a sudden passionate impulse.

Startled at his roughness, she drew back. "Don't ... please!"

He rose abruptly. "Go to sleep," was his harsh command.

A vague uneasiness that was almost fear stirred in her mind. She did not know this man at all. Except for the merest surface commonplaces he was a stranger to her. Yet she had promised to give her life into his keeping. They were alone together in this moonlit night of stars, a thousand miles from all the safeguards that had always hedged her soft youth. After she had married him they would always be together. Even her mother and Phil would be outsiders. So would all her friends—Daisy Ellington and Frank Farrar ... and Steve Yeager if he lived. And he must live. She affirmed that passionately, clung to the thought of it as a drowning man does to a plank. He would get well—of course he would....

And so she fell asleep.



CHAPTER XIII

THE NIGHT TRAIL

Yeager rode into Los Robles an hour after Harrison and Ruth had left. He turned in at the Lunar stables the pony Pasquale had so kindly donated to his use and walked across town to the Seymour bungalow. Passing through the garden and round the house, he disappeared without being seen into the remodeled barn where he lodged.

He felt bully. After an adventure that had been a close call he was back home among friends who would be glad to see him. As he took his bath and shaved and dressed he broke occasionally into a whistle of sheer exuberant joy of life. He intended to surprise the folks by walking down and taking his place with the others when the dinner bell rang. Daisy Ellington would clap her hands and sparkle in her enthusiastic way. Shorty would begin to poke fun at him. Mrs. Seymour would probably just smile in her slow, motherly fashion and see that he got one of the choice steaks. And Ruth—would she flash at him her swift dimpled smile of pleasure? Or would she still be harboring malice toward him for having warned her against Harrison?

Steve waited until he thought they would be seated before he opened the door and stepped into the dining-room. The effect was not at all what he had expected. Daisy was the first to see him. She dropped her knife on the plate with a clatter and gave a little scream. Shorty stopped a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth, as if he were waiting to have a still picture of himself taken. His eyes stared and his jaw fell. Mrs. Seymour, who was bringing a platter from the kitchen, stood stock-still in the doorway. The expression, on her face arrested Yeager's smile.

"What's the matter with you all? Looks like you were seeing a ghost," he said.

"Where did you come from, Steve Yeager?" demanded Mrs. Seymour.

"Me? Why, I came from my room—reached town an hour or so ago."

Something cold clutched at the heart of the mother. "Where from? Weren't you in Sonora?"

"Sure I was. At Noche Buena. And I want to tell you that I've had enough of that burg for quite some time."

Daisy broke in. "Isn't it true that you were shot?"

He turned to her, surprised. "How did you hear that story already. No, it ain't true. I was to have been shot this mawnin', but I broke jail and made a getaway."

"But—your letter said you had shot yourself and couldn't live long. I read it myself. Mr. Threewit showed it to me before he left."

"And Mr. Harrison told us it was true," corroborated Mrs. Seymour. She knew something was wrong, but as yet she could not guess what.

"Harrison! Has he been here?" asked Yeager sharply.

"He and Ruth left this afternoon for Noche Buena. He said you wanted to see her before you died and he showed us the letter you had written."

The range-rider stood paralyzed. The truth flashed numbingly over his brain.

"Ruth—gone with Harrison—to Noche Buena," was all he could say.

Again Daisy cut in, this time sharply. "Tell us your story, Steve. What is it that's wrong?"

In a dozen sentences he told it. They listened tensely. The mother was the first to break the silence after he had finished. She began to sob. Steve put an arm across her shoulder awkwardly.

"Now, don't you, Mrs. Seymour. Don't you take on. We'll get right on his trail." He turned abruptly to Orman. "Get horses saddled. We'll hit the road right away. Daisy, call up Threewit and let him know. I'll take your gat, Shorty."

The edge of decision was in his voice. Nobody disputed the orders of this lean, brown, sunbaked youth with the alert, quiet, masterful eyes. In his manner was something more deadly than threats. More than one of those present thought he would not like to be Harrison.

"Mr. Threewit has gone. He and Frank started for Noche Buena almost an hour ago. They went because of your letter," explained Miss Ellington.

"Good. We'll probably catch them. Jackson, find out if they went armed and see that we all have rifles as well as six-guns. Get a move on you. We'll start in ten minutes from the hotel."

Within the stipulated time they were in the saddle. Steve looked his posse over with an eye competent and vigilant. "Orman, you and Bob ride straight to the Lazy B. Harrison gave it out he was going to stop there for the night. Me, I think he was lying. If he hasn't been there, cut acrost to Gila Creek and follow the bed. Jackson and Dan, you go straight south for the old Pima water-hole and sweep along below the edge of the mesa. I'll have a try more to the east. Mind, no slip-up, boys. And don't forget Harrison wears his guns low. If you have to shoot, aim to kill."

Phil Seymour came running down the road. "What's this they're telling about Ruth and Harrison?" he demanded.

Yeager had no time for explanations. He turned the boy over to one of the others. "Tell him about it, Jackson. If he wants to go along, take him with you and Dan. We'll all meet to-morrow noon at Sieber's Pass."

He shot down the road at a gallop, leaving behind him a cloud of gray dust. The others followed at a canter. Their horses had to cover many miles before morning and there was no use in running them off their legs at the start.

Jackson, waiting for Phil to rope and saddle a pony, yelled a caution to the others.

"Keep yore shirts on, boys. This ain't no hundred-yard dash. Steve's burnin' the wind because he's got to haid off Harrison from Pasquale's camp. All we got to do is to drive him up to Steve."

Phil cut out and roped a pony, then slapped on a saddle. Presently he and Jackson were following the others down the dust-filled road.

The boy spoke his fears aloud, endeavoring to reassure himself.

"Chad won't hurt Ruth any. He wouldn't dare. This country won't stand for that kind of a play with a girl. Arizona would hang him to the first telegraph pole that was handy."

The cowpuncher looked at him and spoke dryly. "I reckon the skunk's been out of Arizona quite some time. He's in greaser land now, and I never heard tell that Pasquale was so darned particular what his men did. Just tie a knot in this: if Harrison reaches the insurrecto camp with yore sister, she'll come back as his wife—or not at all."

"By God! I'll kill Harrison at sight if he hurts a hair of her head," the boy cried, a lump in his throat.

"Mebbe you will, mebbe you won't. Chad ain't just what you'd call a white man. He'll shoot out of the chaparral if he's pressed. Someone's going to git hurt if we bump into Mr. Harrison. It won't be no picnic a-tall to take him. He's liable to be more hos-tile than a nest of yellow jackets."

"Leave him to me if we come up with him. I'll shoot it out with him," the boy cried wildly.

Jackson grinned. "You're crazy with the heat, boy. What do you reckon I bought chips in this game for? I want a crack at the coyote myself."

Phil and Jackson caught up with old Dan a mile or so beyond the point where the road to the Lazy B left the main traveled trail.

"The other boys hitting the dust for the ranch?" asked Jackson.

"Yep."

"Yeager's got it right. They won't find Harrison there. He'll go through with his play. Chad's no quitter."

Dan nodded. He was a reticent man of about fifty-five with a bald head and a face of wrinkled leather.

"We'll git him sure," Phil spoke up, announcing his hope rather than his conviction. "Steve knows what he's doing, you bet."

Yeager himself was not so sure. Doubts tortured him as to the destination of Harrison. Perhaps, after all, he might be making for some refuge in the hills and not for Pasquale's headquarters. He knew that as soon as word reached them the Lazy B riders would begin to comb the desert in pursuit. But what were a dozen riders among these thousand hill pockets of the desert? The best chance was to catch the man at some one of the few water-holes. But if he pushed on at full speed the chances were all in his favor considering the long start he had.

The range-rider was astride the fastest horse in the Lunar stables. Steve had taken his pick of the mounts, for his work was cut out for him. Hitherto the luck had all been with Harrison. If Yeager had not met one of the old Lone Star boys, now riding for the Hashknife outfit, and stopped to join him in a long talk over their cigarettes, Steve would have reached Los Robles in time to spoil the man's plan. Or if he had gone direct to Mrs. Seymour instead of fooling away a good hour and a half in his room, he would have cut down his enemy's start by so much golden time.

Now all he could do was to get every foot of speed from his horse that could be coaxed. He rode like a Centaur, giving with his lithe, supple body to every motion of the animal. But though he took steep hillsides of shale on the run, the pony slithering down in a slide of rubble like a cat, the rider's alert eyes watched the footing keenly. He could afford if necessary to break a leg himself, but he could not afford to have the horse suffer such an accident. Not for nothing had he ridden on the roundup for many years. Few men even in Arizona could have negotiated safely such a bit of daredevil travel as he was doing this night.

His brains were busy, too, on the problem before him. Times and distances he figured, took into account the animals Harrison and Ruth were riding, estimated her strength and her companion's feverish haste to reach safety with her. They would have to stop at a water-hole somewhere, either on Gila Creek, or the old Pima camping-ground, or else at Lone Tree Spring. The most direct route to Noche Buena was by Lone Tree. Harrison was in a deuce of a hurry. Therefore he would choose the shortest way. So Yeager guessed and hoped.

His watch told him it was an hour past midnight when Steve drew close to Lone Tree Spring. He was following a sandy wash into the soft bed of which the hoofs of his horse sank without noise. They were perhaps two hundred yards from the spring when the ears of his pony lifted. That was enough for Yeager. He dismounted and trailed the reins, guessing that the wind had brought the scent of other horses to his own. Quietly he moved forward, rifle in hand ready for action.

The heart of him jumped when he caught sight of two picketed horses grazing on the bench above. He worked forward with infinite care along the bank of the wash till he reached the first of the cottonwoods. From here he could catch a glimpse of something huddled lying under the live-oak. This no doubt was the sleeping girl. The figure of a heavy-set man stood with his back to Yeager in silhouette against the skyline.

Yeager crawled forward another fifteen yards. A twig snapped under his knee. The figure in silhouette whirled. Steve rose at the same instant, rifle raised to his shoulder.

"Don't move," he advised quietly.



CHAPTER XIV

THE CAVE MEN

Harrison stared at him dumfounded, chin down and jutting, his hand hovering longingly close to the butt of a revolver. He stood so for an instant in silence, crouched and tense.

"Damn you, so you're here," he said at last in a low, hoarse voice.

"Don't make another pass like that or I'll plug you. Unbuckle that belt and drop it. That's right. Now, kick it from you."

"What do you want?" demanded the man under the gun savagely after he had obeyed instructions.

"You know what I want, you wolf." Steve moved forward till he was about fifteen feet from the other. His eyes did not lift for a moment from the man he covered.

They glared at each other, two savage, primeval men with the murder lust in their hearts. All that centuries of civilization had brought them was just now quenched.

Then the woman, the third factor in the triangle, stirred restlessly and awoke. She looked at them incuriously from innocent eyes still heavy with slumber. Gradually the meaning of the scene came home to her, and with it a realization that Steve Yeager was standing before her in the flesh.

"You—here!" she cried, scarce believing.

"The cur lied," explained the cowpuncher. "It was a frame-up to get you in his power."

"But your letter said—"

"Never mind about that now. Go down into the wash and bring up my horse. It needs water."

She hesitated. "You're not going to hurt him, Steve?"

"That's between him and me. Do as I say."

Ruth scarcely recognized in this grim, hard-faced man with the blazing eyes the gay youth whom she knew at home. She felt in his manner the steel of compulsion. Without further protest she moved to obey him. She was fearful of what was about to take place, but her heart leaped with gladness. Steve was alive and strong. It was not true that he lay with the life ebbing out of him, all the supple strength stolen from his well-knit body. For the moment that was happiness enough.

Harrison, watching with narrowed eyes the stone-wall face of his captor, jeered at him hardily.

"Now you got a strangle holt on me, what you aim to do?"

"I'm going to take you back to the boys that are combing these hills for you. They'll do all that's done."

The prisoner's sneer went out of commission. He did not need to ask what Arizona cowpunchers would do to him under the circumstances.

"I figured your size was about a twenty-two—not big enough to fight it out alone with me. Once is a-plenty."

The cave man's desire to beat down his enemy with his naked hands smouldered fiercely in the cowpuncher's heart.

"Step out in front of me and saddle those horses," he ordered.

Harrison looked at him murderously. His mouth was an ugly, crooked gash. Boiling with rage, he saddled, cinched, and watered the horses.

Ruth had returned with Steve's pony. Her heart beat fast with excitement. An instinct told her they were about to come to grips in epic struggle.

"You're mighty high-heeled now when you got a gun thrown on me. Put it in the discard and I'll beat the life out o' you," threatened the prizefighter.

Not releasing the other man with his eyes, Yeager lent one hand to help Ruth mount. He gave clear, curt instructions in a level voice.

"Take all three horses and ride to the edge of the mesa. Wait there. One of us—either him or me—will come up there after a while. If it's him, take all the horses and light out. Keep the moon on your left and ride straight forward till daybreak. You'll see a gash in the hills about where the sun rises. That's Sieber's Pass. The boys will be waiting for you. Understand?"

"Yes, but—What are you going to do, Steve?" she cried almost in a whisper.

"That's my business—and I'm going to attend to it. Keep your mind on the directions I've given. If it's Harrison that comes up over the hill, get right out with all the horses. Gimme your promise on that."

Trembling, she gave it to him.

"Don't you be afraid. No need of that. It won't be him. It'll be me that comes. But if it should be him, don't let him get close. Shoot him first. It will be to save you from worse than death. Have you got the nerve to do it?"

Something in his manner, in his voice, rang a bell in her heart. She nodded, her throat too dry for speech.

"All right. Go now. And don't make any mistake whatever you do. Follow out exactly what I've told you."

Again she promised. He handed to her the rifle. She rode away, taking the other horses with her.

When she was out of sight in a dip of the draw, Harrison spoke.

"Well, what is it to be? I see you got your gats yet. Going to shoot me down like a coyote?"

"That's what you deserve. That's what you'd get if the Lazy B boys got hold of you. But I'm going to kill you with my bare hands, you wolf."

With what seemed a single motion of his hands he unbuckled the revolver belt from his waist and flung it from him. Crouched like a tiger, he moved slowly forward, the flow of his muscles rhythmic and graceful.

The prizefighter could scarce believe his luck. He threw out his salient chin and laughed triumphantly. "You damned fool! I've got you at last. I've got you."

Light as a panther, Yeager lashed out with his left and caught flush the point of that protruding chin. The grinning head went back as if it had been on hinges. Shoulders, buttocks, and heels hit the ground together. The range-rider was on him as a terrier lights on a rat. Jarred though his brains were, the instinct of self-preservation served the man underneath. He half turned, flung an arm around the neck of his foe, and clung tightly even while he covered up. Steve's fist hammered at the back of the close-cropped head. The prizefighter swung over, face down, rose to his hands and knees by sheer strength, then reached for his neck grip again.

Yeager eluded him, throwing all his weight forward to force his opponent down again. Harrison gave suddenly. They rolled over and over, fighting and clawing like wild cats, two bipeds in a death struggle as fierce and ruthless as that between wolves or grizzlies. No words were spoken. They were back in the primitive Stone Age before speech was invented. Snarling and growling, they fought with an appalling fury.

Presently they were back on their feet again. Toe to toe they stood, rocking each other with sledgehammer blows. Blood poured from the beaten faces of both. Harrison clinched. They staggered to and fro before they went down heavily, Yeager underneath. The prizefighter thrust his right forearm under the chin of his enemy and with his left thumb and middle finger gouged at the eyes of the man beneath him. Steve's legs moved up, encircled those of the rustler, and swiftly straightened. With a bellow of pain Harrison flung himself free and clambered to his feet. The legs of his trousers had been ripped open for a foot. Blood streamed from his calves where the sharp rowels of the range-rider's spurs had torn the flesh.

They quartered over the ground many times as they fought. Sometimes they were on their feet slogging hard. Once, at least, they crouched knee to knee. Lying on the ground, they struck no less furiously and desperately. All sense of fair play, of sportsmanship, was gone. They struggled to kill and not be killed.

Their lungs labored heavily. They began to stagger as they moved. The muscles of their arms lost their resilience. Their legs dragged as though weighted. Harrison was, if a choice might be made, in worse case. He was the stronger man, but he lacked the tireless endurance of the other. Watching him with animal wariness, Yeager knew that the man who went down first would stay down. His enemy was sagging at the knees. He could with difficulty lift his arms. He fought only in spurts. All this was true of himself, too. But somewhere in him was that dynamic will not to be beaten that counted heavily as a reserve.

The prizefighter called on himself for the last attack. He stumbled forward, head down, in a charge. An aimless blow flung Steve against the trunk of the live-oak. His arms thrashing wildly, Harrison plunged forward to finish him. The cowpuncher ducked, lurched to one side. Against the bark of the tree crashed the fist of the other, swinging him half round.

Yeager flung himself on the back of his foe. Human bone and flesh and muscle could do no more. The knees of Harrison gave and he sank to the ground, his head falling in the spring. His opponent, breathless and exhausted, lay motionless on top of him. For a time both lay without stirring. The first to move was Steve. He noticed that the nose and mouth of the senseless man lay beneath the water. By exerting all his strength he pulled the battered head almost out of the water. Very slowly and painfully he got to his feet. Leaning against the tree for support, he looked down at the helpless white face of the man he had hated so furiously only a few minutes earlier. That emotion had entirely vanished. It was impossible to feel any resentment against that bruised and bleeding piece of clay. Steve was conscious only of a tremendous desire to lie down and go to sleep.

He laved his face with water as best he could, picked up the belt he had thrown away, and drunkenly climbed the hill toward Ruth.

She cried out at sight of him with a heart of joy, but as he lurched nearer she slid from the horse and ran toward him. Could this be the man she had left but half an hour since so full of vital strength and youth? His vest and shirt were torn to ribbons so that they did not cover the mauled and bruised flesh at all. Every exposed inch of his head and body had its wounds to show. He was drenched with blood. The sight of his face wrung her heart.

"What did he do to you?" she cried with a sob, slipping an arm round his waist to support him.

"I said I'd be the one to come," he told her as he leaned against the neck of his pony.

"Oh, why did you do it?" And swiftly on the heels of that cry came the thought of relief for him. "I'll get you water. I'll bathe your wounds."

"No. We've got to get out of here. Any time some of Pasquale's men may come. His camp is not far."

"But you can't go like that. You're hurt."

"That's all right. Nothing the matter with me. Can you get on alone?"

"Can you?" she asked in turn, after she had swung to the saddle.

He had to try it three times before he succeeded in getting into the seat. So weak was he that as the horse moved he had to cling with both hands to the pommel of the saddle to steady himself. Ruth rode close beside him, all solicitude and anxiety.

"You ought not to be riding. I know your wounds hurt you cruelly," she urged in a grave and troubled voice.

"I reckon I can stand the grief. When I've had a bath and a good sleep I'll be good as new."

She asked timidly the question that filled her mind. "Did you—What about him?"

"Did I kill him? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes," she murmured.

"No, I reckon not. He was lying senseless when I left, but I expect he'll come to."

"Oh, I hope so ... I do hope so."

He looked at her, asking no questions. Some men would have broken into denunciation of the scoundrel, would have defended the course they had followed. This man did neither the one nor the other. She might think what she pleased. He had fought from an inner compulsion, not to win her applause. No matter how she saw it he could offer no explanations or apologies.

"I hope so because—because of you," she continued. "Now I know him for what he is. I'm through with him for always." Then, in a sudden burst of frankness: "I never did trust him, really."

"You've had good luck. Some women find out things too late," he commented simply.

After that they rode in silence, except at long intervals when she asked him if he was in pain or too tired to travel. The lightening of the sky for the coming dawn found them still in the saddle with the jagged mountain line rising vaguely before them in the darkness like a long shadow. Presently they could make out the gash in the range that was Sieber's Pass.

"Some of the boys will be waiting there for us, I reckon," Steve said. "They'll be glad to see you safe."

"If I'm safe, they'll know who brought it about." Her voice trembled as she hurried on: "I can't thank you. All I can say is that I understand from what you saved me."

He looked away at the distant hills. "That's all right. I had the good luck to be in the right place. Any of the boys would have been glad of the chance."

After a time they saw smoke rising from a hollow in the hills. They were climbing steadily now by way of a gulch trail. This opened into a draw. A little back from the stream a man was bending over a camp-fire. He turned his head to call to a second man and caught sight of them. It was Orman. He let out a whoop of gladness when he recognized Ruth. Others came running from a little clump of timber.

Phil lifted his sister from the saddle and kissed her. He said nothing, since he could not speak without breaking down.

Jackson looked at Steve in amazement. "You been wrastling with a circular saw?" he asked.

It hurt Yeager's broken face to smile, but he attempted it. "Had a little difference of opinion with Chad. We kind o' talked things over."

Nobody asked anything further. It is the way of outdoor Arizona to take a good deal for granted. This man was torn and tattered and bruised. His face was cut open in a dozen places. Purple weals and discolorations showed how badly his body had been punished. He looked a fit subject for a hospital. But every one who looked into his quiet, unconquered eyes knew that he had come off victor.

"First off, a bath in the creek to get rid of these souvenirs Chad sent to my address. Then it's me for the hay," he announced.

Ruth watched him go, lean, sinewy, and wide-shouldered. His stride was once more light and strong, for with the passing hours power had flowed back into his veins. She sighed. He was a man that would go the limit for his friends. He was gentle, kindly, full of genial and cheerful courage. But she knew now there was another side to him, a quality that was tigerish, that snarled like a wolf in battle. Why was it that men must be so?

Old Dan chuckled. "Ain't he the lad? Stove up to beat all get-out. But I'd give a dollar Mex to see the other man. He's sure a pippin to see this glad mawnin'."

Something of what was groping in her mind broke from Ruth into words. "Why do men fight like that? It's dreadful."

Dan scratched his shiny bald head. "It straightens out a heap of things in this little old world. My old man used to say to me when I was a kid, 'Son, don't start trouble, but when it's going, play yore hand out.' That's how it is with Steve. He ain't huntin' trouble anywhere, but he ce'tainly plays his hand out."

Phil took charge of his sister. He gave her coffee and breakfast, then arranged blankets so that she could get a few hours' sleep in comfort. Orman rode back to Los Robles to carry the word to Mrs. Seymour that Ruth had been rescued and was all right. The others lounged about camp while Yeager and the girl slept.

At noon they were wakened. Coffee was served again, after which they rode down from the pass and started home. Before supper-time they were back in Los Robles.



CHAPTER XV

STEVE WINS A HAM SANDWICH

Yeager was roused from sleep next morning by a knock at the door. His visitor was Fleming Lennox, leading man of the company.

"Say, Steve, what about Threewit and Farrar? I just telephoned to the Lazy B Ranch and the foreman says his boys did not run across them. You know what that means. They've reached old Pasquale's camp."

Yeager sat up in bed and whistled softly to himself. This was a contingency he had not foreseen. What would the Mexican chief do to two of the range-rider's friends who delivered themselves into his hands so opportunely? Steve did not think he would kill them offhand, but he was very sure they would not be at liberty to return home. Moreover, Harrison would be on the ground, eager for revenge. The prizefighter never had liked Farrar. He had sworn to get even with Threewit. An added incentive to this course was the fact that he knew them both to be on very good terms with his chief enemy. Without doubt Chad would do his best to stimulate the insurgent leader to impulsive violence.

The man in bed concealed his apprehension under a comical grin. "This life's just one damned thing after another, looks like," he commented. "I didn't figure on that. I thought sure the boys would bump into Threewit. That slip-up surely spills the beans."

"You don't think even Pasquale would dare hurt them, do you?" asked Lennox anxiously.

"Search me. Pasquale's boiled in p'ison, especially when he is drunk. He'd do whatever he had a mind to do."

"What's the matter with us sending a messenger down there with a fake wire from the old man to Threewit telling him to hustle up and get busy right away on a feature film? Pasquale would have to show his hand, anyhow. We'd know where we were at."

Yeager assented. "He'd have to turn them loose or hold them. But even if he turned them loose, he might arrange to have them accidentally killed by bandits before they reached home. Still, it would put one thing right up to him—that their friends know where they are and are ready to sick Uncle Sam on him if he don't act proper."

Manderson, Miss Winters, and Daisy Ellington were called into council after breakfast. The situation was canvassed from all sides, but in the end they stood where they had been at the beginning. Nobody felt sure what Pasquale would do or knew whether the visitors at his camp would be detained as prisoners. The original suggestion of Lennox seemed the best under the circumstances.

Old Juan Yuste was brought in from the stables and given the telegram. He was told nothing except that it was urgent that Threewit get the message as soon as possible. The five-dollar gold-piece which Lennox tossed to the Mexican drew a grin that exposed a mouth half empty of teeth.

In the absence of both Threewit and Farrar the business of producing films was at a standstill. The members of the company took an enforced holiday. Manderson read a novel. Daisy wrote letters. Lennox and Miss Winters went for a long stroll. Steve helped Baldy Cummings mend broken saddles and other property stuff. The extras played poker.

Juan returned late in the evening on the second day. He brought with him a letter addressed to Lennox. It was from Pasquale. The message was written in English. It said:—

Greetings, senor. Your friends are the guests of General Pasquale. They came to Noche Buena to find one Senor Yeager. They are resolved to stay here until he is found by them, even though they remain till the day of their death.

The note was signed, "Siempre, Gabriel Pasquale."

After reading, it, Yeager handed the note back to Lennox and spoke quietly.

"Pasquale passes the buck up to me. I've been thinking he might do that."

"You mean—?"

"—That he serves notice he's going to kill our friends if I don't give myself up to him."

"But would he? Dare he?"

Yeager shrugged. "It will happen in the usual Mexican way—killed by accident while trying to escape, or else ambushed by Federals on the desert while coming home, according to the story that will be dished up to the papers. He will be full of regrets and apologies to our Government, but that won't help Threewit or Frank any."

"Don't you think he's bluffing? Pasquale hasn't a thing against either of them. He surely wouldn't murder them in cold blood."

"I don't know whether he is or not. But it's up to me to sit in and take cards. They went down to Noche Buena on my account. I'm going down on theirs."

Lennox stared incredulously at him. "You don't mean you're going to give yourself up. Pasquale would hang up your hide to dry."

"That's just what he would do, after he had boiled me in oil or given me some other pleasant diversion. No, I reckon I'll not give myself up. I'll join his army again."

"I give it up, Steve. Tell me the answer."

"As a private this time."

"Fat chance you'll have, with Friend Harrison there to spot you, not to mention the old boy himself and Culvera."

"It won't be Steve Yeager that joins. It will be a poor peon from the hills named Pedro or Juan or Pablo."

"You're going to rig up as a Mexican?"

"Some guesser, Lennox."

"You can't put it over, not with your face looking like a pounded beefsteak. I judge you don't know what an Exhibit A you are at present. The first time Chad looked at you, he would recognize the result of his uppercuts and swings."

"So he would. I'll have to wait a week or so. Send Juan back to Pasquale and tell him you hear I'm in the Lone Star country where I used to punch. Say you've sent for me with an offer to take Harrison's place in the company, and that if I come you'll arrange with him to have me taken by his men while we're doing a set near the line. He'll fall for that because he'll be so keen to get me that any chance will look good to him. You'll have to give Juan a tip not to let it out I'm here."

"What can you do if you get into Pasquale's camp as one of his men?"

"I don't know. Something will turn up."

"You're taking a big chance, Steve."

"Not because I want to. But I've got to do what I can for the boys. This ain't just the time for a 'watchful waiting' policy, seems to me. If you've got anything better to offer, I'm agreeable to listen."

"The only thing I can think of is to appeal to Uncle Sam."

"That won't get us much. But there's no harm in trying. Have the old man stir up a big dust at Washington. After plenty of red tape an official representation will be made to Pasquale. He will lie himself black in the face. More correspondence. More explanations. Finally, if the prisoners are still alive, they will start home. Mebbe they'll get here. Mebbe they won't."

"Then you don't think it's worth trying?"

"Sure I do. Every little helps. It might make Pasquale sit steady in the boat till I get a chance to pull off something."

When Daisy Ellington heard of the plan she went straight to Yeager.

"What's this I hear about you committing suicide?" she demanded.

"News to me, compadre," smiled the puncher.

"You're not really going down there to shove your head into that den of wolves, are you?" Without waiting for an answer she pushed on to a prediction. "Because if you do, they'll surely snap it off."

"Wish you'd change your brand of prophecy, nina. You see, this is the only head I've got. I'm some partial to it."

"Then you had better keep away from that old Pasquale and Chad Harrison. Don't be foolish, Steve." She caught the lapels of his coat and shook him fondly. "If you don't know when you're well off, your friends do. We're not going to let you go."