"I don't remember," was the disappointing answer.

"You remember poor peon was wounded—near bleed to death?"

"What?" said Gilbert, light beginning to dawn upon him.

"You do!" shouted Lopez, delighted. "Where was 'e wounded? Quick! You tell!"

"Shot through the shoulder," Gilbert answered promptly.

"It is you! Don't you know me?" He faced him squarely, threw back his shoulders, and waited, breathless, for his look of recognition.

Gilbert studied his face. An instant of doubt, and then, "Why, you're Pancho Lopez!" he said.

The bandit was overjoyed. "I am! But don't you recognize who is ze Pancho Lopez what I am? Look close! Ze clothes, no! Ze face!"

"Good Lord!" was all Gilbert could utter.

"Now you know me?"

"You're the man I found wounded that night!"

"And whose life you save!" Lopez added.

"Well, what do you know about that!" young Jones shouted. He was as surprised and happy as the bandit himself. This man, whom he never thought to see again in his whole life was standing here, in his own adobe.

"Now you know me!" Pancho went on. "Ah! my frand! 'Ow glad I am for to see you some more! Pedro! Venustiano! Ees my friend! Sabbe! Orders like my own! Serve 'im as you would me!" He went to Gilbert and frankly embraced him in the Latin fashion. "Eet's 'ell of a good thing I reckernize you!" he laughed, hugging his old friend close. He could never forget his kindness that night so many years ago; and to think he had run across his deliverer now!

Everyone was relieved. Their troubles would now be ended.

"And you ain't going to rob him, after all?" Uncle Henry piped up.

"Rob 'im? Rob my frand?" Lopez repeated.

"Ain't you?" Uncle Henry cried.

The bandit looked at him, wonder in his eyes. "No! Ciertamente no!"

"Hooray!" the old man yelled, and would have risen in his chair could he have done so.

"Say, who the 'ell is that?" said Lopez, addressing himself to Gilbert.

"He's my uncle," young Jones answered.

"Uncle?" the bandit said, unbelieving.

"Uncle Henry," old man Smith wanted it to be straight.

"He shall go free," Lopez announced.

Hardy thought this a good omen. They would all be set free, no doubt. He faced Lopez bravely. "Ah, then it's all right," he said, a sickly smile on his face.

"All right?" said Lopez.

"Yes," Hardy said.

Lopez considered for a moment, hand on chin, his eyes again two narrow slits. "Not so fast," he cautioned. "It ees all right for 'im," nodding at Uncle Henry, "an' all right for 'im," indicating Gilbert; "but for you—" He let one hand fly out, and a resounding slap on Hardy's eager face was the result. Then he turned to Pedro. "Take them all out—pronto! 'Ees all right!' Like 'ell ees all right!"

Hardy flushed scarlet. His first impulse was to strike back; but how could he? Those guns pointed at him from every direction. He was as powerless as a baby. But his hour would come. This dastardly Mexican bandit should suffer for that blow.

Yet like one of a line of sheep he was obliged to follow Pedro out of the door. It was a humiliating moment. Gilbert and Lopez were left alone.

"Now we shall visit," the bandit said, and put his arm through Gilbert's. "Ah! it ees so good to see you, my frand!"

Gilbert was still mystified. "Yes," he said, "but I don't understand how you, a peon, became the Pancho Lopez so soon."

"Ah! it ees so easy!" laughed the bandit.

"Easy!" Gilbert repeated.

"Si. My frand"—his hand went to Gilbert's shoulder—"ees great opportunity, ees revolution, for make speed. When I got well, I find I do not enjoy my work, which are 'ard. Business? Business, she make me sick! I say for myself, 'What to do?' Zen, suddenly I sink, 'I shall be soldado!' Soldier which shall be giv ze 'orse, ze gun, ze woman, and nozzing to do but shoot a little sometimes! Ees a wonderful life, my frand!" The smoke of his cigarette curled to the ceiling.

"I didn't find it so," young Jones said, and smiled in his dry way.

"Pah! It's too many damn rules in your army. For us who make revolution, no! We sleep so late we damn please. We fight some when we feel so. If we find ze hacienda, we take all what we choose. When we need money, we go to city and rob ze bank—we 'elp for ourselves food from ze store, shoes, clothes, candy, ze cigarette, agauriante—" he made as if to drink from an imaginary glass—"booze! An' if anybody 'ide anysing we cut 'is fingers off so's 'e tell us. She is one fine life! You like for try? I make you general! Come!"

His face was radiant. The recollection of his army life filled him with joy.

But Gilbert shook his head. "Not for me, thank you," he smiled.

Lopez merely shrugged his shoulders. "So! I was afraid!"

"But how did you get ahead so fast?" young Jones wanted to know. "That's what sticks me."

The bandit laughed. "Zat is simple. You see, one day ze lieutenant she are killed. Soon I become a lieutenant. Nex' day, ze captain. So I am captain, Byme-bye, ze major—so I became major. Pretty damn soon ze colonel—so I am colonel. I kill ze general for myself." As he spoke, he lifted the chair at the table, and brought it down on the floor with a bang.

"What!" cried Gilbert, at this description of an opera-bouffe army.

"But we shall not talk of me," Lopez said. "We shall spik of you. 'Ow you been since I seen you, what?" He tossed away his cigarette.

Gilbert offered him another of his own.

"No, gratias; zat's for peon. Zese from ze swell hotel National an Torreon—zay are good. I steal zem myself," pulling out his case and lighting another. He pushed his chair so that he could see young Jones better. "Well, old frand, how you feel zis long time? Eh?"

"I?" said Gilbert. He smiled a little, and looked significantly about the room.

Lopez caught the look. "So?" he said, sympathy in his tone. "It ees too bad." He paused, letting the smoke curl over his head again. "Ah! I see her now! You are ze nephew of Uncle Henry which owns zis rancho which are to be foreclosed by moggidge." Gilbert nodded. "H'm! Zat shall make her all different some more! Axplain for me, so I shall know."

Gilbert replied: "There's not much to tell. I borrowed ten thousand from my uncle; ten more from Hardy—the tall man, and our neighbor. He's a loan shark—you know, in a mortgage. I go to the war. When I come home, cattle all gone. No money. That's all." He made a gesture as though the world were tumbling about him.

"I see," said Lopez. "And wiz ze strange ideas of your country, it makes you feel bad."

"Well, it seems like a pretty good chunk of trouble to hand an average citizen," young Jones said.

"Trouble?" Lopez let out the word in wrath. "You are no trouble. You only sink you are."

"You don't call this trouble? If it isn't then I don't know what trouble is!"

"Not really trouble." He came over and put his hand on Gilbert's shoulder. "Only trouble you are made for yourself because you go by law what are foolish instead of sense what are wise." He gave him an affectionate pat. Just then Uncle Henry wheeled himself in, neither inquiring nor caring if he was wanted or not.

"Well, I sure told 'em their right names for once, gol darn 'em!" he chuckled. Lopez glared at him. "Pardon me! My mistake!" the invalid apologized; and rolled into the alcove. "So, you sink you have much trouble," Lopez continued, as though the invalid had not come in to interrupt them. The clock struck five. He listened to it, and then said, "I have time to spare—" He went to the window and looked out.

"But if you've been raiding around here," Uncle Henry said from his seclusion, "won't the rangers be after you?"

"I have ze scouts who watch," the bandit said. He turned to Gilbert again. "Suppose I stop here and prove to you who sink you have trouble, zat really you have no trouble at all?"

The young man looked at him incredulously. "You mean you can get me out of this mess?" he asked.

"Sure! In one half hour," the bandit was convinced.

"Really?"

"In one half hour your trouble go poof!" He made a ring of smoke and watched it fade away. "And you shall be 'appy man. If I do zat, what zen?"

"If you do that," said the other, "they'll have to tie me down to keep me from kissing you!"

"Good!" laughed Lopez. "She is did."

There was a moment's pause. Then, "But how are you going to do this miracle?" Gilbert was anxious to find out.

"Zat is for you to leave to me. Well, what you say?"

"I say yes, of course!"

"Bueno! We begin," said the bandit. He called through the door: "Pedro! Bring zem all in again."

Uncle Henry was curious, "What are you going to do?"

"You shall see," was all Lopez answered.

Angela was the first to file into the room. Uncle Henry glanced at her. "What are you going to do about her?" he asked.

Lopez looked around, "Her?" he said.

"Her!" repeated Uncle Henry.

"What 'as her to do wiz it?" the bandit inquired.

"Why, she wants to marry him," Uncle Henry revealed, pointing to his nephew. "That's what started the whole jamboree."

Lopez looked astonished. "So?" he said.

"Uh—huh!"

The bandit glanced at Gilbert. "But 'e does not love 'er," he said, nodding toward Angela.

"Certainly not!" Gilbert was instantly saying, and glared at his uncle. The latter, as usual, plunged straight ahead, as the others now gathered about the room. "He," meaning "Red," "loves her. He," he nodded toward his nephew, "loves her," pointing to Lucia Pell. "And she loves him," nodding back to Gilbert.

"Shut up! How many times must I tell you to—"

"But she," went on Uncle Henry, just as if nothing had been said, and pointing to Lucia, "is married to him," indicating Pell. "Which makes it a hell of a mess all around!" He leaned back in his chair as if he had done a good day's work.

Gilbert could scarcely restrain himself. Again he wanted to lay violent hands upon him—he wished he could. "Be quiet, won't you?" he breathed.

"Not me!" Uncle Henry persisted. "I've gotter tell the truth."

"Yes, but—" Gilbert began.

"I don't wanter get shot," the old man declared.

Lopez turned to Gilbert. "Is it true? You love her?" his eyes going to Lucia.

How could he tell the truth? "Of course I do not," he affirmed. Then he went close to his uncle. "What did you do all this again for?"

"He says he can fix it," Uncle Henry said. "Let him try. He's done swell so far. Personally, I got a lot o' confidence in that feller. He's slick, he is!"

It was easy to be seen that the bandit was not satisfied with the answer Gilbert had given him. He had been slyly watching both him and Lucia. Now, he said, looking at them both: "So!" And old man Smith started to break in once more; but Lopez went on: "Is it true?"

"What makes you think so?" Gilbert wanted to know.

"It is in her eyes—and yours," the Mexican stated. "I shall miss her. She is very beautiful. However, what is one woman between frands?" He laughed a bitter laugh. "You shall have her."

Uncle Henry cried out: "But he can't have her. She's married."

"Ees too bad," said Lopez, nonchalantly. "But nozzing to get excite about."

"Nozzing to get excite about!" mimicked Uncle Henry.

"No. But ees more to be did zan I 'ave sought. But I 'ave promise I shall make you a 'appy man, my frand," again to Gilbert. "Bueno! I keep zat promise. You have gave me your word zat you will not interfere. Is it not so?"

"Yes, but I—" Gilbert hardly knew what to say.

"It is for you to keep zat word as I keep mine," Lopez said. Then, to Uncle Henry he went on, "I shall start wiz you. Now, Pedro!"

"Si," answered the faithful minion of the bandit, stepping forward.

"Remember," his master commanded. "Shoot ze first one which interrup'."

"Si," said Pedro again, and grinned broadly and pleasantly. If there was one thing he liked, it was the possibility of trouble with prisoners. He knew how to bring them to terms. He had been doing it for years.

Lopez got down to business. "Now, look here, Oncle Hennery: my frand 'ave borrow money which 'e 'ave lost? Is zat true?"

"Yes, sir," answered Uncle Henry promptly, and happy to have been addressed so familiarly by the bandit. He felt that his triumph was now complete.

"'E cannot be happy until 'e pay you back."

"No, sir," sitting up straight in his chair.

"I shall give you ten sousand dollar," was the bandit's surprising remark.

Uncle Henry thought he could not have heard aright. "Ten thousand—! Yes, but where are you going to get it?" he inquired, a bit dazed.

"Do not ask me." He caught sight of "Red." "Ze next is you." He appraised him rapidly, and then said to Gilbert, "'E is frand for you, no?"

"He certainly is," answered young Jones promptly. "About the best I ever had." He wasn't going to see anything happen to the faithful "Red." He'd have protected him with his own life.

Lopez liked this, "You love zat girl?" he said to the foreman, meaning, of course, Angela.

"What?" the latter cried out.

"Well, I don't go around advertising the fact," "Red" told Lopez, a bit mortified that his heart affairs should be thus openly discussed.

"Ze girl zat spoiled my dinner," the bandit laughed.

"Oh!" cried Angela, who thought she had done so well.

"And she love you?" Lopez went on.

"I don't either!" Angela protested, speaking before "Red" had a chance.

"Now, Angela!" said "Red," his face the color of his flaming hair.

His dream seemed so close. Was it possible that the only girl he ever had adored was going to see it wrecked?

Angela weakened a bit at his tone. "I like him," she told the bandit. "But I don't—love him."

"Ah! but you do!" Lopez insisted.

"I do?" said Angela, wide-eyed.

"I have so decide!" the bandit stated.

"What?" cried Angela, not knowing what he could be driving at.

"Also you make love to my frand, Senor Jones."

"Oh!" cried the frightened girl now.

"And you have annoyed him in other ways."

"I have?" she wailed, terrified to the breaking point.

"Red" intervened. "Listen, Angela—" he began.

She stamped her little foot, and was peppery at once. "I won't!"

"You don't love him," "Red" affirmed, for her.

"Oh!" Angela burst out, all confusion.

"No more than you loved any of the rest of 'em," "Red" went on.

"Keep still!" the girl cried. "Keep still! I think you're dreadful!"

"It's because they're better looking than me," her slave went right on. "I'm the one for you to marry, Angy, and you know it!" He had faith in himself at last—she couldn't stop him now.

"No!" Angela contradicted.

"Aw, come on!" poor "Red" begged.

But she stamped her foot again. "No—no—no!"

"Say you will!" "Red" pleaded, almost distracted.

But Angela was adamant. "I won't—I won't listen to you another minute!" She turned her back on him, blushing to the roots of her hair.

Lopez had been highly amused at the girl's pique and "Red's" honest interest in her. He came to his assistance. "We shall be patient. She is mad. And mad lady sink not wiz ze 'ead, but only wiz ze tongue." He faced the pouting Angela. "Senorita, leesten to me. 'Ow old are you?"

"None of your business!" was the instant answer.

"Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?" Lopez pressed, smiling.

"Certainly not! I'm only twenty!" She was swift with the denial.

"Ah! I sought so," said Lopez, much pleased.

"What?" Angela said, not understanding him.

"In Mexico you would now be married five years—" the bandit explained.

"What?" screamed Angela.

"An' have six children."

"Oh!" The very thought made Angela ill.

"You are not pretty—none too pretty!" Lopez said.

The girl was now both hurt and amazed. "What's that?" she cried, all her feminine anger aroused.

"You will soon grow fat," Lopez continued, looking her over carefully.

Angela pulled out her handkerchief and brushed her eyes. "Oh!"

"Like ze tub!" said Lopez, inexorably, spreading his arms to indicate an immense diameter.

"Oh!" was all poor Angela could get out.

"Also, you 'ave ze bad temper."

"Oh! Oh!" Sobs now came from her.

"So, if you do not marry soon, it will be too late."

"What's that?" she looked up, not able to believe she had understood.

"Now, my frand 'ere, 'e wish to marry wiz you. Why, I do not know." Lopez grinned broadly. He knew this would be the last stroke. He was right.

"Oh!" gasped Angela.

"Shall he come wiz me to Mexico," the bandit piled it on, "I will give 'im planty wives, young, beautiful...."

"Oh!" again came from the distracted Angela.

"But he want you. And so ..."

"You're going to force me to marry him. I see!" She turned to the listening "Red." "And you'd let him force you on me, like this?"

"It ain't my fault, Angela," the foreman assured her. "I didn't know he was going to do this! You know that."

Lopez issued his ultimatum.

"I am not going to force you to marry 'im. You are going to choose to marry 'im."

The girl was on the brink of despair.

"Never! Never! Never!" she screamed, and stamped her foot vigorously.

"Ah! my young lady. We shall see." He turned abruptly, and called, "Pedro!"

"Si," the faithful one answered, and came to his master.

Lopez then addressed Angela: "I shall not force you to marry 'im," indicating "Red" with a wave of the hand. "I shall insist only zat if you do not marry wiz 'im, you shall marry wiz Pedro."

Directly behind the girl stood the fearful Pedro. His face was the dirtiest that had ever crossed the border into Arizona. His teeth were sparse, his hair a tangled mass of grit and dirt; his hands like violent mud-pies. The suit he wore was stained and greasy—he had slept in it for many nights. Altogether, he was about the most hopeless-looking individual a girl could be asked to look upon. At his master's words, he grinned a fiendishly happy grin, spread out his arms as if to embrace the charming Angela, and, if possible, press a kiss upon her rosy cheek. But Angela, with one look at him, collapsed into "Red's" waiting arms. He seemed like heaven to her now.

"Ah!" yelled Lopez.

"'Red'! save me, save me!" Angela cried in melodramatic fashion.

Pedro, seeing how far from popular he was with the young lady, walked disconsolately to the door.

"So! You do love 'im, after all!" the bandit said to Angela.

"I never thought I could love anybody so much!" the girl replied. "Oh, 'Red'!" And she hugged him again.

"You mean it?" asked the delighted "Red." "You're not saying it because..."

But Lopez broke in: "She is saying it because it is ze truth. In pleasure, a woman go to ze man she sink she love. In fear, she go to ze man she really love.... Well, you really want her? She is yours. And I 'ope you will be 'appy. At least, I 'ave done my part." He smiled his most enchanting smile.

"You have—you certainly have, and I am mighty obliged to you," said the grateful "Red."

"You are welcome. I like you. But remember zis: Eet is your wish—not mine.... Don't blame me."

"Red" could stand this now: he had his Angela. And tucked in his big arm, he took her outdoors.

As soon as they had gone, Hardy turned to Lopez. "Look here!" he shouted, "I guess I've got something to say about this. That's my daughter, whose affairs you've been so kindly fixing up, and—"

Lopez gave him one look that closed his mouth suddenly. "Don't shoot, Pedro," he said. "Well?"

Hardy cast one eye at Pedro's lifted gun, and got out only one word, "Nothing." A meeker man never lived.

"From what my frand tell me, I can see now 'ow you make your money," the bandit told Hardy. "You are a robber."

This was too much for Hardy—for any man with a spark of manhood left in him.

"I am not!" he denied. "I'm a business man."

"You are a loan fish," the bandit pressed.

"A what?"

"A loan fish! You loan money. And when ze people cannot pay, you convict zem and take zeir ranchos."

The lean, sharklike Hardy looked a little depressed at this accusation.

"Well, if they can't pay, it isn't my fault," was all he could say.

"It isn't zeir fault, too, is it?" Lopez was curious to know.

"What's that?" Hardy said.

"So you take ze rancho from my friend, Senor Jones. A nice sort of neighbor you are, you beeg fish!"

"I'm not to blame because he's a rotten business man, am I?" Hardy tried to set himself right.

Lopez looked at him scornfully. "How do you know 'e is a rotten business man?"

"Why, the fact that I've had to foreclose the mortgage shows that," Hardy smiled.

"Not at all. Senor Jones 'ave been away to war. He been away fighting for 'is country."

"Well, that isn't my fault."

"No." There was profound contempt in the little word. "He give up 'is business to go away to fight to save you, while you stay be'ind to rob 'im. Is zat fair?"

Hardy gave a gesture of disdain. "I'm not talking about what's fair, or what's not fair. There's lots of things in this world that ain't right. I am doing only what the law allows." He thought this cleared his skirts. It was the refuge of every scoundrel.

"I do not speak about ze law," Lopez followed him up. "I am doing only what is fair. If I were you, I should be ashamed for myself! You love your country?"

"Certainly I do," the other answered.

"Like 'ell! You love yourself!" And Lopez deliberately turned his back on him.

"Now, wait a minute!" Hardy begged. He could scarcely have this insult added to the host of others. "I do love my country. I'm a good American."

"Yet you would rob ze man who fight for your country! Bah!" The bandit waved his hand in disgust.

Hardy saw he was in a bad hole. "There's some truth in what you said," he admitted, trying to crawl out. "He has fought for America. And I'm willing to do the right thing by him."

"You will?" yelled Uncle Henry, wheeling close to him.

"If I get this place, I'm willing to give him a good bonus," Hardy continued.

Uncle Henry leaned forward, all eagerness. "How much?" he cried.

"Say, five hundred dollars," the loan shark generously offered.

"I knew there was a ketch in it!" Uncle Henry said, and rolled back in the shadows of the alcove.

Lopez had been listening intently. Now he stepped up to Hardy and said: "Senor Santy Claus, now I understand why it is so 'ard for your country to get ze soldier. In Mexico, ze soldiers would take all ze money and give ze people a bonus ... per'aps." He puffed his cigarette. "I am done wiz you." He turned abruptly to Lucia. "Now I shall come to you."

She started.

"You love my frand, Senor Jones?"

Gilbert intervened. He could not stand this. "I don't know what you're getting at," he said to Lopez, "nor how you're going to get it. But you must see that you can't discuss a thing like this here. It's impossible—utterly impossible." He was suffering vicariously for Lucia.

Pell sneered. "Your delicacy is somewhat delayed," he murmured.

"I don't mind business discussions. But there's been too much insinuation to-day. I won't have any more of it," Jones said.

Lopez looked affectionately at the young fellow, "But if I would make you 'appy...." he said.

"I don't want to be made happy at a cost so great," Gilbert affirmed.

Lucia's lovely head drooped, and she moved to the window.

"It shall be but a moment," the bandit promised. Gilbert walked to the fireplace so that his face would not be seen. Lopez went over to Lucia. "Senora, you do not wish to speak of love. Why?"

"I am married," was the answer.

"And because you are marry, you cannot speak of love?... Eet is strange customs. Tell me, senora, what does your marriage service say?"

"One promises to love, honor, and obey, in sickness and in health, till death shall part."

Lopez smiled. "All zat you promise?"

"Yes," very low.

"And yet you 'ave divorce!"

"Yes," lower still.

"So zat, after 'aving promise to love, honor, and hobey," he tapped off one finger at a time, and looked as if he wanted to get this mysterious matter straight in his mind, "until death, you 'ave ze right to break your word because ze judge say you can? Is zat it?"

"Y-y-y-yes. I suppose so."

Lopez smoked a moment, looked at the ceiling, and then said, "Well, why not break it yourself and save ze trouble!"

"It's the law," Lucia told him.

"Humph! An' what does ze 'usband promise? An' 'as 'e kept 'is promise?" There was no reply. "Is plain 'e 'as not. Zen why should you keep your word to 'im, when 'e 'as broken 'is word to you? Eh? Why do you not go before ze judge and 'ave your promise broken? Why ees it ze custom of your country? Why? Why?" He looked bewildered.

Lucia could say nothing. What was there to say? Suddenly Uncle Henry's sharp voice was heard: "I'll tell you why!"

Lopez turned to him. "And why?"

"She ain't got no money," Uncle Henry informed the room.

Lucia lifted her face. "Oh, do you think that would make any difference?"

"So!" Lopez was interested, "'Er 'usband? 'E 'as money?"

"He's richer'n mud," Uncle Henry declared.

Pell started to speak; but Pedro stopped him by lifting his gun.

"How much?" Lopez asked, not noticing.

Uncle Henry was bursting with information. "He's worth millions, the big bum!"

The bandit's eyes opened wide. "Millions!" he repeated. He looked at Lucia. "Yet 'e give nozzing to ze wife. H'm! Senora, tell me.... Does a widow in your country get any of 'er 'usband's money when 'e dies?"

Pell, listening intently, drew a sharp breath. He caught the significance of the question. His lips contracted. This damned bandit was capable of anything.

Lopez paid no attention to him. He asked for enlightenment from Hardy. "Senor Loan Fish, do you know?"

Pell ventured to get out part of a sentence. "Say, what the ..." But Pedro's active gun came against his ribs, and he paused, as who would not?

"She gets it all—the wife," Hardy told Lopez. "That is, if the husband hasn't made a will."

"'Ave you?" the bandit turned on Pell. "'Ave you made a will?" His tone was incisive. "Do not lie."

"No, damn you!" Pell in his rage cried out. "But I'm going to, the first min—"

"Good!" smiled Lopez.

Pell was puzzled, "What do you mean ... good?"

Lopez did not answer him; instead, he addressed Lucia: "Senora, your 'usband 'e is bad frand for you. 'E beat you, sometimes?"

Lucia was startled. "Why do you think that?" she asked.

"I 'ave known ladies what are beaten. It is in ze eyes ... as in dogs and 'orses." He waited a second before he went on, came close to her, and peered earnestly into her eyes. "Si, I sink your 'usband a evil man." He turned on Pell again. "Say, who are you? Your business, I mean?"

"I'm in Wall Street," Pell said, in a low voice. What in God's name was this bandit going to do? What was his game?

"Wall Street? 'Aven't you never done anything honest? You go to ze war, per'aps, like my frand, Senor Jones?"

"I was in Washington," Pell winced. "A dollar-a-year man."

"You use your money, your power, to escape ze war? So! You are not only a skindler, but a coward. While my frand fight, you stay to home, to torture ze woman, H'm! I see it all now. Nice boy, you!"

Pell could scarcely articulate now, but he managed to get out, "By God, I've had enough of this—just about enough!"

Lopez looked at him coldly, a glint in his eye that should have warned Pell. "Do not worry," he said. "You are about through." He turned to his friend, Gilbert. "And now, my frand, you shall go." Young Jones did not understand him.

"Go?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

Lopez looked at him calmly, "I 'ave much business to do. You shall not 'ear, nor see, because for you is love, romance! Not business, which are soddid. Leave all zat for me, which am a business man." He smiled upon Lucia. "As I said, life 'as been unkind to you, senora. Ze silly law ... ze foolish custom ... 'ave been around your 'eart, around your soul, like chains. But fear no more," he assured her. "For I, your frand, shall make you also 'appy." He put his arm around her.

She was fearful of his plans. "What are you going to do?" she cried.

Lopez laughed. "Wait and see. Life shall be yours. And love! Planty money! All what your 'eart desire. Now go...."

Pedro started to show them out the door. Gilbert, seeing the movement, said:

"But I don't understand ..."

"I shall call you soon," Lopez said. "Zen you shall see. Now go." He got between them, and affectionately directed them to the door.

Gilbert turned to him. "You aren't going to ..."

The bandit smiled. "Do not worry. I shall do no 'arm. Only good. Please go, my frand."

Lucia and Gilbert, deeply puzzled, obeyed, and followed Pedro into the open air. What did this portend? There had been a strange look in the eyes of Pancho Lopez.



CHAPTER XI

WHEREIN A MAN PROVES HIMSELF A CRAVEN, A SHOT RINGS OUT, AND THE BAD MAN EXPLAINS ONE LITTLE HOUR

A heavy silence fell upon the men who were left in the room. The bandit, unconcerned, puffed his cigarette. Hardy and Pell felt like rats in a trap. Only Uncle Henry was passive. In the tense stillness, the clock could be heard ticking on and on. Pell was beginning to crack beneath the strain. Suddenly he began to pace the floor, his hands behind his back. No tiger in a cage was ever more impatient in his captivity.

"If you want money," he finally got out, "for heaven's sake, tell me how much, and ..."

Lopez quickly interrupted him. His fury boiled over at the insinuation. "Be still!" he cried. "You will please be quiet. I 'ave business to sink out which are 'ard."

Pell was equally angry. "Why, damn you ..." he sputtered.

He should have known better. Coldly Lopez took him in. "I 'ave been patient wiz you—too patient. I see zat now." The other returned his keen gaze, and for an instant he did not quail; but finally he could stand the strain no longer. His eyes fell away, and for the first time in all their bitter encounter he felt himself sinking. A terrible uncertainty came over him. This Mexican, this beast, was going to do something desperate. There was not the shadow of a doubt about that. He must go carefully: he must not lose his self-control. To do so would be madness.

Luckily, Uncle Henry broke the tension just then: "Am I going to get my money back?" he cried out. And his chair projected itself into their midst.

Lopez faced Hardy, across the table. "Senor Loan Fish," he said, "if my frand, 'e pay you ze money, zen ze rancho belong to him?"

"If he pays me before eight o'clock," the other replied promptly.

"Senor Wall Street," the bandit now addressed Pell, "you 'ave ten sousand dollar. I want it."

Pell was amazed. "But I—"

Lopez snapped his fingers. Pedro, who came back at that very moment, took the money from Pell, and watched his master closely for further instructions as to what to do. Lopez nodded toward Smith.

"For 'im," he said.

"For me?" cried Uncle Henry, joyfully.

"I must make my frand 'appy," the bandit said. Pedro gave the money to Uncle Henry. The latter grabbed it as a child might have grabbed a cooky.

Lopez turned to Pell. "Now—you is rob." To Hardy he said: "You is paid," and to Uncle Henry, "An' you get your money back. Bueno! Ees finish."

Pell was cynical. "I'll say that's service," he murmured; and a sardonic grin came to his thin lips. Perhaps the bandit was joking, after all. But damn these jokes that kept one in long after school!

Uncle Henry, however, had a strange apprehension, and wheeled about, facing Lopez.

"You ain't goin' to take it back from me, are you?" he inquired.

"No, Ooncle Hennery," the bandit laughed, "she is yours for keeps. Zat is all. You may go!" And he waved him out. "And you," to Hardy. "Pedro, show zem into ze open space!"

"'Im too?" asked Pedro, indicating Morgan Pell who stood, as though made of stone, in one corner.

"Poco tiempo!" the bandit said.

"Debommultalo!" his henchman replied.

"Si," Lopez smiled. And Pedro got the invalid and the lanky Hardy through the door, as a woman might have swept two geese from her path.

Left alone with the bandit, Pell remarked:

"Look here, there must be some way to settle this thing." But he had grave fears.

"To zat, I 'ave come at last," the bandit replied with an emphasis that could not be mistaken.

"You have?" Pell's voice was weak.

"It shall cost me planty money. I could 'ave tooken you wiz me for ransom—'elluva big ransom—a million dollar, mebbe. But I am not soddid!" He laughed, and rubbed his hands together.

"You aren't going to hold me for ransom?" Pell questioned, relief in his voice.

"No."

"What—what are you doing to do?"

The reply was as swift as an arrow. "Kill you."

Pell did not believe what he heard.

"Kill me?" he repeated, his head on one side, like a bird listening, and pointing to his chest.

"Si." Lopez had never used a politer tone.

"You—you're joking." There was a crack in Pell's voice.

"Joking?"

"You must be!" huskily. "I thought so all along—now I'm sure of it."

The bandit faced him, and threw his cigarette over his shoulder in the chimney-place. "Do I look like a joker?"

"You sit there, like that, and talk of killing me in cold blood?"

Lopez took him in through half-closed lids. "I do not like you. Nobody like you. Alive, you are no good. Dead, you make two people which I love 'appy. You get me, Senor Wall Street?"

"Oh, I see," cried Pell, wildly, and doing his best to keep his legs from giving way, "you would kill me so that my wife can marry this Gilbert Jones?" A sickly smile curled around his mouth.

Lopez nodded. "Si, senor."

"If that's all, I'll give her a divorce!"

"You weel give her a divorce?" Lopez repeated, pretending to be much interested and pleased.

Pell saw a gleam of hope through the darkness of this moment. "Yes," came breathlessly from him. "Then she can marry him. Don't you see? If that's all you want—he can have her." He was shaking now in every limb. Escape was almost his. He knew he could not be done away with. "I'll give her to him!" He staggered toward Lopez, "I will! I swear I will!" he screamed, his words reaching a high falsetto.

Lopez rose. "I would look at you once before I shoot," he said slowly, and took in the other's cringing form.

"What?" Pell said.

Disgust was on the features of the bandit—contempt and unbelievable loathing.

"I 'ave met mans which would not fight for zeir money," he said with great deliberation, his lip curled. "I 'ave met mans which would not fight for zeir lives. But I 'ave never before met ze man which would not fight for 'is woman."

Pell saw that he was doomed now. He made one final desperate attempt. "But if you—shoot me—you'll be hanged!"

"Ha!" laughed Lopez. "If I am ever caught, I shall be 'anged many times!"

"I'm an American citizen!" shrilled Pell.

"I 'ave kill many American citizens," replied Lopez, without the slightest compunction.

Pell wrung his hands. "My Goverment will pursue you!"

"You are mistaken. Your Government will watchfully wait. We kill American citizen. Your Government write us beautiful letter about it.... But we have waste time!" He drew his gun.

As Lopez leveled the weapon. Pell all but dropped on his knees. "Wait!" he cried. "I'll give you money! Plenty of money! A million dollars! Yes, two million!" It could not be that so shameful a fate was to be his.

"It is not zat we want money," the bandit replied. "It is zat we don't want you."

Terror seized poor Pell. "But for God's sake," he wailed, "you wouldn't do that! You couldn't! Without even a chance for my life. At least fight me fair!" His voice seemed far away to him—like the voice of another being from a distant world.

"Fair?" Lopez rolled the word over.

"Give me a gun, too!" the fool prayed.

"Give you a gun! Pedro!" The man had evidently been just outside the door, and came in at once. "Pedro, you 'ear?" And Pedro grinned.

"Yes! Give me a chance!"

"I shall never understand ze American idea. I give you a gun, you say?"

"Yes! That's the least you can do!" Pell was weeping now.

"But if I should give you a gun, you might shoot me wiz it!" Lopez laughed.

"You won't?"

"I am no damn fool!" the bandit cried. And he deliberately raised his gun again.

"You're not going to kill me? No! for the love of God, don't!" He plunged forward, groveling at Lopez's feet. A woman in a melodrama could not have begged harder for mercy. "Spare me!" were the words that fell from his pitiful lips. "For God's sake, spare me! I'll do anything! Go anywhere! He can have her! You can have her! Her, and all the money I've got, if only you'll spare my life!"

The bandit looked down in utter disgust at the cringing form. Never had he seen anything in the world that he detested more. Pell's fingers were on the bandit's boots.

"I did not know zat even a dog could be so yellow," he said. Then he turned to Pedro. "I do not 'unt rabbits. You kill 'im, Pedro." And he would not look again on the miserable specimen of a man that wallowed there on the floor.

"Ah! for the love of God!" came from Pell, who had half risen. At that instant Pedro shot from his hip at the debased creature. The form stiffened and collapsed like a bag, falling partially under the table.

"It is a good deed," said Lopez, turning. "He was evil man."

The shot had been heard without. "Red," Gilbert, Hardy, and a few Mexicans rushed in at the sound.

"Who shot?" cried the former.

"Pedro," said Lopez.

"But what was he shooting at?" "Red" asked.

Lopez smiled. "Only ze 'usband."

"What!" cried "Red." He turned and saw the body of Pell lying sprawled on the floor, and horror came over him. "You've killed him!" His voice was husky.

"I 'ave. Most enjoyishly!" said Lopez, lighting a cigarette.

Gilbert went over and stared down at the mute frame. "He's dead," he announced. "Completely. Pedro never misses," was the bandit's only comment.

"But to kill a man—like that! In cold blood!" Hardy gasped. "Oh, it's horrible!"

"Why not?" Lopez wanted to know. "Ze skindler, ze coward what beat his wife. Was evil man." What white-livered folk these Americans were!

Gilbert looked down at Pell's body, which had now, in death, a certain curious dignity. "But don't you see what you've done?"

Lopez looked at him in bland amazement. "You wouldn't still fool around wiz ze foolish law, ze silly court?" he inquired. "Do you not see 'ow much better is my way? One hour ago you 'ave no money, no rancho, no woman. One little hour! Ze money she is paid, ze rancho she is yours, and ze woman what you want to marry is free for do so!" He looked Gilbert in the eyes, and came close to him. "Tell me, 'ave I not keep my promise? 'Ave I not make you, in one little hour, a 'appy man?"



CHAPTER XII

WHEREIN THE BAD MAN CANNOT UNDERSTAND THE GOOD MAN AND DISAPPEARS; AND A DEAD MAN STIRS

Immediately after, Lucia came in. She saw the body of her husband, the legs drawn up a bit, the arms stretched out, the wounded head turned so that the blood flowing from the forehead could not be seen. Only a few moments before, this limp, pitiful object had been speaking to her—calling her by name. It seemed incredible that Pell was powerless now to harm her. Brute though he had been, he gained, in this awesome instant, a strange glory, as the dead always do. The splendor of that universal experience was suddenly his; and, even lying there like a discarded meal-sack, he took on something of the pomp of a cardinal who had died. Never, of course, had she respected him more; and though she could not bring herself to shed a tear, she looked down at the still body, huddled in a heap, and craved one more word with him. No matter what has happened between a man and a woman; no matter what tragic hours they have known, when the moment of separation comes, there is always that wish to have explained a little more, to have taken a different course in all one's previous actions. It was not that she blamed herself; she had nothing on her conscience. But there was an instinctive dread at meeting the certain pain of this crisis.

She could not believe that he had gone from her like this. She had read of people being blotted out in such fashion; but that Fate should bear down upon her household, that the lightning should strike within the borders of her garden, seemed impossible. Like everyone else, she never dreamed that a great tragedy could come to her. Just as we never think of ourselves as meeting with a street accident, so she never thought of this catastrophe. Yet there he lay, the symbol of that inexorable terror that moves through the world.

She went over quietly to a chair near the table and sat down. She hid her face in her hands. She did not wish to see that silent form again; yet he had been her husband, and her place, she knew, was by his side, in death even more than in life. How the world had changed for her in this little hour!

She had come into the room just as Pancho was finishing his talk with Gilbert; and she caught the force of his words. Now she heard him saying something else.

"And now, what you say? You all 'appy, eh?"

Gilbert was still too dazed to understand. "You've killed him!" was all he could utter.

"I 'ave," the bandit answered. "You need not thank me. It was a great pleasure." Evidently he smiled; Lucia would not look up.

Gilbert paced the floor. "He's dead!" he kept repeating, as though to brand the truth upon his brain. "He's dead!" He paused once and stared down again at the body.

"He's dead, just as I say," Lopez stated. "Pedro never misses."

As though he had heard his name spoken, the ubiquitous Pedro ambled in, slowly, and with a bored expression upon his ugly countenance.

"Azcooze, my general," he said. His chief turned. "It is ze damn ranger. Zey is after us some more."

Lopez never turned a hair. Lucia heard him say: "It is time. I was agspectin' zem. Ze 'osses?"

"Zey are ready," Pedro informed him.

Pancho paused and considered a moment. "Zey come from ze souse, zose rangers?"

"Si," was the quick answer.

Lopez rose. "Felipe Aguilaw becomes more hefficient hevery day. I shall make general of 'im yet. Bueno, we go."

"Red" had gone over and looked out of the window. Twilight had definitely come, and the sky was a great sheet of flame. Orange, pink, purple, and red, the clouds shifted over the face of the dying sun. A king going down to his death could not have passed in greater glory. While men and women fought their little battles, waged their puny quarrels, this stately miracle occurred once more. Unmindful of the grief of mortals, the day was about to pass into the arms of the waiting night.

"What's it all about?" "Red" asked, turning from the wonderful scene without to the frightened people within.

"It is ze ranger what chase me some more again," smiled Lopez. He seemed wholly unconcerned.

"Texas rangers after you?" asked "Red," startled.

"Si!" laughed Lopez.

"And you don't even get excited?"

"For why? It is not my habit. I give not a damn for any man." He snapped his fingers, as though at life itself.

Two horses could be seen through the door. The men were bringing them up to their leader. "We should take our time—is no hurry." He took his big sombrero from the peg where he had put it long ago, and turned to Gilbert. "Well, I go now. Adios, my frand."

"Wait a minute," the other tried to detain him. "You've killed him. You wouldn't go and leave things this way, would you?"

"As I say, no trouble for me," Lopez boyishly said, and smiled, shrugging his broad shoulders.

Gilbert was astonished. "Yes; but how about me?" he wanted to know, "You do not think of that."

The bandit turned, amazed. "What ze matter? Are you not satisfied? You all what you say: zit—zot—zet!" He pinched his fingers, and made a funny little noise.

"I can't think," said Gilbert, sitting down, one hand on his forehead. "It's all so strange, so confusing to me. The world seems to be rocking beneath my feet. What does it all mean—this life we live for so brief a time? What does anything mean?"

Lopez came over to him and put his hand on his shoulder affectionately. "You Americanos so queer," he said, "For why you waste time thinking? Are you not rich? 'Ave you not ze beautiful lady to love like 'ell yourself personal?"

Gilbert jumped up. He thought he would go mad if this sort of thing kept up. "Good God, man!" he cried. "After what you've done, you can talk like that?"

"What have I done?" inquired the bandit, blandly. "Well, what I done?"

Gilbert looked at him in amazement. "You killed him! That's all."

Lopez smiled. "Sure!" He let the word loiter on his tongue. He pulled it out like so much molasses candy. "I killed him—sure. Was in ze way. What else could I do?"

"You've put a barrier between us. We're of a different brand, a different calibre. Don't you see?"

"Ees no way for pliz you. If I do not kill ze 'usband, ees all wrong. If I do kill ze 'usband, ees all wrong. Say," he looked at him in confusion, "what ze 'ell shall I do wiz ze damn 'usband, anyway?" He puckered his brow.

"Oh, I don't know," Gilbert said in desperation. What was the use in arguing with this barbarian? Yes, he was a barbarian—nothing else. They were miles apart. Centuries of belief and training separated them.

"You don't know?" Lopez said. "Pretty soon you find out. It surprise you now. But pretty damn soon when all shall go and leave you alone wiz 'er, you shall be sensible, too—like Mexican. To live is more strong as law. Wait and see, my frand, wait and see!" He shook his head mysteriously.

Pedro stepped forward. "Here is a pistol," he said to his master in Spanish.

Lopez looked at him. "Ah, gratia, Pedro!" He took the weapon from him and patted him on the back. Then he whispered something in his ear, handed it back, and Pedro gave it to Gilbert.

"Ze ranger. Zey come," he said as he did so.

"Bueno. I go," said Lopez, and started toward the door. Then he turned to Gilbert. "Astuavago adios. Maybe we will meet again, maybe no. Quien sabe?" He waved his hand, gave one last look at Pell's limp form, and cried, "Adios!" He was gone—vanished like a ghost.

They all were mute in the little room. They heard the hoof beats of the horses as they galloped away. Fainter and fainter grew the sound. Then silence. And meanwhile the great night was falling like a curtain around them all. Through the doorway came the last beautiful beams of the sun. The mountains were like giant sentinels, row on row, unbelievably near in the semi-darkness. Far off, now and then, a bird could be heard calling. Soon darkness would envelop the earth, and this day of doom would be gone forever. Never might they see Pancho Lopez again. Gilbert would go north; and Lucia—He could not think.

Hardy broke the silence. He came over and looked down at Pell. "We can't touch him till the coroner gits here," he said grimly. There were, as always, ghastly details to be attended to.

"But I better make sure," said "Red," kneeling beside the body. "Right in the head. Not a chance." He was peering down at the gaunt face. "No, not a chance when you get it there."

Angela, hearing something outside, had rushed to the door and looked into the growing darkness. "I thought—What was that?" she exclaimed.

They all listened. Far off a shot could be heard—then another. But it must have been miles away.

"Red" sprang up. "Rangers!" he cried. "They're shooting!"

"Where are they?" Hardy asked.

"In the arroyo," "Red" replied. He was at the window, looking out. "You'll see 'em in a minute."

The sound of shots came nearer. It was as though a miniature army were storming the section near the adobe.

Uncle Henry, sitting in the alcove, was terrified. "What's that?" came his piercing voice.

"They see him!" cried "Red."

"Do you think they can hit him?" Angela cried.

"Red" was certain they could not. "There ain't a chance, at that range," he said.

But Uncle Henry was not so sure. "Mebbe they might, by accident."

"Red" turned. "Accidents don't happen in Arizona—leastwise not with guns."

The horses' hoof beats came nearer. Yet in all the excitement, Lucia did not move. She was keeping her silent place by the body of Morgan Pell. She did not even raise her head.

"Here they come!" cried Angela, leaning out the doorway.

"Red" had gone out of the room; but he came back now. "Better get inside," he warned them all, definite fear in his voice. "We're in range. It's pretty dangerous. As I said, accidents don't happen down in this country."

"But I want to see!" cried Angela, dancing with excitement now.

"Red" was distracted. "Please come in, Angela," he begged. More shots were heard. He was frightened for everyone. He had lived too long down here not to know the meaning of such desperate shooting. "What the h——" Two bullets came through the window, and smashed a little mirror that hung on the wall near the staircase. The bits of glass fell to the floor with a loud crash.

"What's the matter?" came the terrified voice of Uncle Henry. His hands clung to the wheels of his chair. But he did not budge it.

"Red" had not been able to dodge a shot. "Right through the hat!" he cried, and waved his Stetson. Sure enough, a bullet had gone clean through his headgear. Had he lifted his face a few inches higher, he would have been shot himself.

More hoof beats. Yet Lucia never moved.

"Bullet?" asked Hardy.

"Yes," "Red" replied. "And it was spang new—this hat. Cost eighteen dollars!" He was still looking at the tattered Stetson.

"Oh, it might have hit you!" Angela cried and embraced him.

"Told you we'd better keep inside!" "Red" said.

"You bet—until they go by," Hardy agreed.

"Red" stepped forward. "Back, everybody!" he ordered. He pushed everyone farther back into the room, until they were all crowded in one corner. Uncle Henry was trembling like a leaf. How he wished he had never been brought to this strange country! Oh, for the peace of Bangor, Maine! There was a place for you! Down here it was all shooting, killing, and desperate trouble. Having escaped one crisis, was it possible the fates were to be so unkind as to put him in the way of another, from which there might be no extrication? Curse the luck, anyhow. Gol darn it!

The hoof beats came nearer and nearer. There were more shots. A man dismounted near the door. Then a man on horseback galloped up to the very entrance of the adobe. There was a general movement without, but no one ventured to go out and see what had happened. They could hear voices, sharp commands, and far off one more shot. Someone cried, "Keep on after him, boys!"

A ranger came in. He was an angular fellow, with a bushy mustache, and eyes like a ferret. His gun was on his hip, and one hand never left it. His name was Bradley. Gilbert knew him well. Often had he met him in the hills. He was known as one of the best shots of all that company of men who pursued criminals and bandits through the State, and drove them over the border. Few escaped him; and he had a train of lieutenants who adored him. A born fighter, a born pursuer of men, who loved his desperate life, and gloried in his conquests. Some called him Bradley the Inexorable. He seldom missed a shot; and God help those who came into his power.

"We're after Lopez," he said breathlessly. "Been here?" He never wasted words.

"Yes," Hardy answered. He looked toward Pell's body.

Bradley's quick eyes followed his. "Hello! what's that? Wounded?" he asked.

"Worse—he's dead," Hardy replied.

Bradley stepped close to the still form. "Who did this? Lopez?"

"Yes," from Hardy.

"Got it in the head, eh?" the ranger went on, looking down at Pell, but with no pity in his face. He was too accustomed to death. A man who had been killed was just another "case" to him—one of an endless row of corpses.

Angela came up to the table. "He's really dead?" she breathed, and clung to "Red's" big arm.

"Who was he?" Bradley inquired.

Hardy motioned to the mute Lucia, sitting so quietly in the chair. "Her husband. Name's Pell."

"Sorry for you, lady," said Bradley, perfunctorily, as he might have said "Good-morning." He turned now to go. "Don't touch him till the coroner comes," he commanded. "Mind what I say."

"But officer—" began Hardy.

"Can't stop," Bradley waved him aside. "Now we gotter get him." He went out as swiftly as he had come in. Every instant was precious. There was not a second to be lost.

And still Lucia did not stir a muscle. It was as if she had been turned to stone. A silence fell upon them all. "Red" sat down on the little window-seat, his Angela beside him. Hardy tried to smoke. They could hear the clock ticking on and on—that little clock which had heard so much as its hands moved around the dial during the last few pregnant hours.

Suddenly Uncle Henry, who had been looking at Morgan Pell's huddled form, cried out;

"Hey, what's comin' off?" Had the darkness deceived him?

"Red" jumped at the question. "What's the matter?" His nerves were on edge.

"He moved!" cried Uncle Henry, excited now, and rising in his chair, which he wheeled out into the room.

"Moved!" cried "Red." "You're crazy! He's stone dead, if ever anyone was."

"I seen him—I swear I seen him!" Uncle Henry's eyes were almost popping from his head. "Why didn't someone do something? Why didn't they see what he saw? Oh, to be able to walk, and not sit forever like a dried mummy in this chair!

"But how could he have moved?" "Red" exclaimed. "He's dead, I say!"

"I don't know how he could!" Uncle Henry cried, "but he did! Look at him!" He could scarcely control himself now.

"Maybe Lopez didn't kill him after all," "Red" said, and knelt down to examine Pell's body again.

"Now don't tell me that!" Uncle Henry yelled. "Ain't we got trouble enough here without him comin' back?" He could have stood any calamity, it seemed, but the return to life of this wretched Morgan Pell.

"By golly!" "Red" exclaimed, on his knees, his hand on Pell's white face.

"Was I right?" Uncle Henry said.

"Red" rose slowly. His voice was almost a whisper. "He's alive!" he breathed.

Gilbert, who had not taken Uncle Henry's word seriously, could not doubt "Red's" verdict.

"Alive!" he said. "Oh, it can't be!"

For the first time Lucia moved. Her lips opened. "Alive!" she managed to say. Again the world crumbled for her.

"It was only a flesh wound," "Red" said. "The bullet just grazed his head."

Lucia looked up. She was ashen. She was older, and her eyes seemed to have lost their fire. "He's—really—alive?" she got out. She stared down at her husband.

"They should of shot 'im in the stomach!" Uncle Henry stated. What a mess! What rotten luck, ran through his weary brain.

Pell's foot moved again. Then his arm went up; and slowly he rose on one elbow, pushed away the tablecloth that touched his head, and looked about him. He was like a man awaking from a sound slumber. He was dazed, mystified. In the almost complete darkness, he could not distinguish faces.

"What was it? What happened?" he inquired, in a hollow voice—a voice from the tomb!

No one answered. They were all terror-stricken.

"I can't remember," the hollow voice went on. He fell back on the floor. He was weak from the loss of blood. "Red" lifted him up, and helped him around the table to a chair.

Lucia's eyes never left Morgan Pell's face. Was she dreaming? Was this some madness that had come to her? This brute come back to life! It was unbearable, unbelievable. She could not adjust her mind to the situation. But with true feminine instinct, she found herself leaving her chair where she had sat so long, going to the kitchen and getting a cup of water. Then she knew, in some strange way, that she had fetched a bowl, and a towel. These she placed on the table. Still she looked at her husband, as though he were a ghost—as, literally, he was. They had thought him dead—gone forever. Now he was back among them, speaking, moving. Incredible! One hand went to her face. She dreaded the thought of Morgan's seeing her.

It was Uncle Henry who broke the awful tension.

"You was shot!" he cried, to Pell.

The other looked at the old man in the chair. "Shot?" he said.

"Yes, and a rotten shot it was, too!" Uncle Henry was not afraid to say. "Gol darn it all!"

The moment was too tragic for anyone to smile.

"Who shot me?" Pell asked. He was very weak. He put the towel in the bowl of water, and pressed it to his forehead.

"A friend of mine!" cried Uncle Henry.

Gilbert glared at the old man. No one could be forgiven for a remark like that.

"I remember, now," Pell murmured. "The bandit."

"And a gol darn nice fellow, too," Uncle Henry went on. "A little careless, but—"

Pell looked startled. The towel fell from his hand and he looked about him. "He's not here still!" he cried, as one just coming out of a stupor to a full realization of his surroundings.

"No, worse luck!" Uncle Henry said.

"He's gone?" Pell said.

"The rangers came," Hardy explained.

"Texas?" from Pell.

"Yes, gol darn 'em!" Uncle Henry let out.

Lucia, who had been watching Pell's face every second, now offered him the bowl of water with her own hands, and drew closer to him. She picked up the towel that had fallen to the table, and folded it, then dampened it. Pell looked up and saw her for the first time.

"Oh, so there you are, my dear!" was his cynical greeting.

Lucia still stared at him. "I thought—I thought—you were dead," she murmured. Her voice sounded far away to her. It was scarcely a whisper.

"So it seems!" Morgan Pell answered, his lip curling. "My dear, I regret to disappoint you. But aside from a slight pain in my head, I was never better in my whole life!" He wanted to see the effect of his words.

"Shall I bandage your wound for you?" his dutiful wife asked.

He looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Thank you—no," he said.

Lucia sat down on the other side of the table.

Not a word more was said. Pell took out his own handkerchief, and started to dip it in the bowl of water. But he was shaking still, and the piece of linen dropped to the floor. He stooped to pick it up. As he did so, he saw, in the dim light, the option lying exactly where Pancho Lopez had tossed it. He grasped it in his hand, crushed and crumpled as it was, and thought no one had observed him. But Uncle Henry's eagle eye had seen his movement.

"What's that?" he called out.

Pell tried to seem unconcerned. "The option, my dear sir," he answered truthfully.

"By gollies, he's got it again!" Uncle Henry yelled, in desperation. He switched his chair around, and faced Gilbert. "Why didn't you tear it up while he was dead?" he asked.

Pell addressed Uncle Henry. "You've got ten thousand dollars of my money," he firmly said.

"I have?"

"I want it," was the other's immediate reply.

"It was paid me for a debt," the old man said.

"It was stolen from me first," Morgan Pell stated, calmly. "Come across." He put one hand out. The other still held the cloth to his wounded forehead.

"I'll be cussed if I will!" the invalid cried. He clapped his hands over his vest pocket, where the money was safely hidden.

"Why, you poor old crook—" Pell began, rose, and snatched the money from Uncle Henry before anyone knew what he was doing. All his old fire was back. He seemed the most alive man in the room.

Uncle Henry cried out, wildly, "Hey, ain't there no Americans present?" He saw Gilbert's gun which was on the seat beneath the stairway. He was close enough to grasp it. He did so, pointed it at the room in general, and yelled, "Now I got yuh! Hands up, everybody!"

But no one moved. A disdainful silence followed. "Didn't yuh hear what I said?" Uncle Henry inquired, looking at everybody.

"Put that down," said Hardy contemptuously. "You might hurt somebody," he added, smiling.

"Ain't yuh goin' to do it?" Uncle Henry asked.

"As I was going to say—" Hardy started, when Uncle Henry interrupted him with:

"But it was what he done!"

"Who?" asked Hardy.

"The bandit," Uncle Henry answered.

"Will you keep still?" Hardy urged.

"Certainly not!" Uncle Henry went on. "I got a gun here and I—"

Hardy reached for the weapon. "I'm holdin' you up, gol darn it!" Jasper Hardy took the gun as he would have taken a bag of peanuts from a child, and handed it to Gilbert with a wink.

"Hey! You can't do that!" wailed the invalid. He wheeled his chair toward his nephew. "You wouldn't do that if my friend Lopez was here, you big bum!" he ended, as peevish as an infant.

Pell turned upon his wife. "Well, my dear—" he began, and once more his lips curled at the irony of the last phrase.

"What!" Lucia said; and there was terror in her voice.

Pell did not mince words. "Having both the Option and a clearer understanding of each other, there's nothing to detain us." He measured everything he uttered, and watched the effect upon her.

"It's no use," Hardy broke in. "You're too late."

"Not if I got there by eight o'clock," Pell said.

"But you won't!" Jasper Hardy quickly said, glancing at the clock which ticked on, inexorably.

Pell pulled out his watch. Then he looked at the option, deliberately, carefully, and seemed to read a final sentence. Having done so, he tore the piece of paper to bits slowly, and scattered them on the floor at his feet. At that very instant the clock struck eight.

"It's eight o'clock!" "Red" exclaimed on the last peal of the bell.

"Eight o'clock!" Hardy cried. "And the place belongs to me!" He turned to Pell. "Anything more from you?" he inquired, and smiled.

The other stared at him; but he said nothing. Instead, he went over again to the table, and wet his handkerchief in the bowl, again refusing Lucia's proffered assistance with a wave of his other hand. He bathed his own wound. And meanwhile Hardy was saying to Gilbert:

"Well, young feller, it's your move."

"His move!" "Red" repeated the phrase. "Say, you wouldn't go and skin him out of the place all over again, would you?"

Hardy sneered. "I'm going to foreclose, certainly, if that's what you mean, you impudent young scoundrel!"

"You mean you would trim him again?" "Red" didn't believe it.

"Say, boy, you better use your head. You're going to marry my darter, ain't you?"

"Yes—I hope so," the foreman said.

"Well, don't you realize that all I got will eventually go to you and her? Don't you?"

"It will?" asked the incredulous "Red."

"Certainly; when I die," answered Hardy.

"I hope it'll be soon!" cried out Uncle Henry. Then, to "Red," "Don't you see he's leading you up to the top o' that gol darn mountain?"

"Red" did not understand. "Gol darn what?" he said.

Uncle Henry was exasperated at his stupidity. "Why, he's temptin' you, the old devil! Don't let him. It's a gol darn shame," he added, turning his chair so that he faced Hardy, "an old scoundrel like you tryin' to corrupt a nice young feller like him! Don't you know money you get like that won't do you no good?"

"It's his—Gilbert Jones's," cried "Red," "and I ain't goin' to be party to robbin' him of it!"

"Hooray!" yelled Uncle Henry. "That's the boy! I knew you was like that. You're all right!" And he backed into the alcove, happier than he had been in a long time.

"You hear that?" Hardy said to his daughter.

"I do," she answered, "and he's right."

"What's that?" said her surprised father.

"It is Gil's, and to take advantage of him isn't fair. You know it as well as I do, too!" She stamped her little foot.

"Say, you don't think you love him again, do you?" Hardy wanted to know.

From the alcove, Uncle Henry cried: "That's the idea! And if the poor sucker'd only marry her—"

But Angela interrupted: "It isn't him I care for. It's—" She cut herself off, and could have bitten out her tongue for thus revealing her heart.

"Angela!" cried the enraptured "Red." He went over to her, grasped her around the waist, and led her to the window.

Hardy said, trying to pacify his daughter: "But I ain't going to be hard on him—or on Jones."

"You ain't?" Uncle Henry cried.

Hardy turned to the nephew. "You know, that stuff Lopez said about me bein' a bum patriot stuck in my craw. And now that I got the place, if you ever need any help I'll be glad to go on your note for you."

Gilbert said nothing; but Uncle Henry rushed in with, "You will?"

"That is, if it ain't too much," Hardy craftily added.

"How much?" Uncle Henry asked.

"Oh, two hundred dollars," Jasper Hardy grandly said.

"Two hundred dol—Git out o' my way!" Uncle Henry wheeled straight through him.

"Say, where are you goin'?" Hardy cried.

"To Mexico!" Uncle Henry said. "This country's gettin' so it ain't fit to live in!" And he whirled out of the room.

Hardy turned to his daughter. "Nothing to keep us here any longer. Come on, Angy."

"Come, 'Red,'" said the girl, as she started to follow her father. What else was there to do?

Even though it was Angela who called to him, "Red's" allegiance was for the moment elsewhere.

"I gotter stick by him," he said, looking at Gilbert.

"No," said Gilbert. "This is something I've got to settle alone. But I thank you, 'Red'—I thank you with all my heart. You're a brick—a red brick." He smiled and patted him on the back.

"Red" was suspicious still. He looked at Gilbert. "You don't think he'll try any funny business, do you? You're sure you won't need me around?"

"How can he try any funny business?" Gilbert asked.

"I know," said "Red." Gilbert looked at him closely. "I get yuh," the foreman continued. "But I don't like it just the same." He switched over to the malignant Pell. "There's one little detail I'd like to call your attention to," he said.

"Well?" Pell said.

"I'm a tough little feller myself, sometimes. And if anything should happen that shouldn't, I'll be waitin' for you in town with a one-way ticket. And it won't be to New York. Savez?" Then he turned to his adored and adoring Angela. "Come, Angy!"

And he grasped her arm, and took her out.



CHAPTER XIII

WHEREIN AN OLD SITUATION SEEMS ABOUT TO BE REPEATED, ANOTHER SHOT IS FIRED, AND THE BAD MAN COMES BACK

Deeper and deeper grew the darkness. Outside, indeed, the first stars had begun to shine, and soon the heavens were a miraculous glory. But there was no moon. Every road was hushed, and the trees waved their long arms in the gloom. The little machine that took Angela and her father home, rolled down the quiet valley. Its chug-chug was the only sound for miles around. "Red" was happy in the cool night. He rode all the way out to the Hardy ranch. He and Angela sang an old song, and let Jasper Hardy sit at the wheel and whirl them to the lights of home.

Meantime, back in Gilbert's adobe, the Mexican cook came from his stuffy kitchen and fetched a lamp for the sitting-room. He lighted two candles by the fireplace, closed the shutters and door, and went back to his pots and pans. He said nothing, noticed nothing. It had been a day of intense excitement for him, and he was glad to crawl back, like some tiny worm, into the cave where he ruled supreme.

Lucia, in the lamplight, was paler than before. The three of them were standing, curiously enough, almost as they had stood only a few brief hours ago; and as she looked around her now she thought of this.

"So," she said. "We're back just where we started from!" The grim humor of it came over her. Ten minutes ago she had thought her husband dead—done for, out of the way. Now he stood before her in all his virility, in all his cruelty; and behind him was the one man in the world that she loved.

"Not quite," said Gilbert. He stepped forward a pace or two. He saw that Lucia was alarmed. "Come," he begged of her. "Don't be afraid." Oh, the balm of those few words!

But she was not wholly herself yet. "What are you going to do?" she asked, and came nearer Gilbert. How strong and determined he looked in the dim light!

"I'm going to have this thing out," he said. "You can never go back to him now." There was finality in his voice.

"No, I never can," Lucia agreed. And there was finality in her voice, too. It was as if Destiny had come into this house, and an unheard voice told them what to do.

"You'll trust me to protect you—until—" Gilbert went on.

She looked at him pleadingly. "Oh, take me with you, Gil!" She threw her arms out. She had nothing to fear now, his strength beside her. She told him in one glorious gesture that she was his forever—that she had surrendered herself, body and soul, to him. Gilbert looked at her. Slowly, he realized that this woman, this creature of his dreams cared for him, and him alone; and the world might sweep by, the stars and moon might crash to earth, and they would neither know nor care. Fate had brought her to him. Nothing else mattered now. What was Morgan Pell? In life he was as impotent as when he lay half concealed beneath the table near which he now stood. They would not consider him, save as the foolish laws of man made it necessary for them to consider him.

Gilbert turned to Pell. "You heard—she's mine now. And any course you may take to stop her—" he warned. It was useless to say more. The manner in which young Jones spoke told the whole story of his feelings.

Yet Pell tried to appear nonchalant and casual. "You haven't another drink around, have you?" he inquired. He still held his handkerchief to his wounded forehead. "That was a rather nasty one I got, you know."

Gilbert, though he loathed him as a serpent, remembered that he was this creature's host, and stepped over to the fireplace where there was a flask with a little tequila still left. He offered Pell the bottle.

"You were saying—?" Pell went on. He poured himself a stiff drink. "Something about leaving me, wasn't it?" It was plain to be seen that he was bluffing. "I'm sorry," swigging down what he had poured, "but I wasn't listening very closely. This thing here—" he tapped his wound. No one answered him, and he set down his glass. "Well?" to his wife.

She faced him with a flame in her eyes. "Had I known you, I never would have married you. But now that I do know you, I could never live with you again. I loathe and despise you, with all the strength that is in me."

"You want to leave me, eh?" He sneered as he stared at her. "And go with him?... Won't your reputation—?"

"What do I care for my reputation?" she flared. "At least I shall have my self-respect. I never could keep that if I went back to you."

"It's your reputation, of course," Pell smiled. "You can do as you like with it." He turned fully toward her. "All right, I've no objection."

"You're lying," Gilbert affirmed.

Pell's tongue rolled round in his cheek. "I don't blame you for thinking so. You haven't been shot to-day. You should try it sometime. It changes one's viewpoint surprisingly." His voice seemed to lose its hardness for a moment; there was a note of self-pity in it.

"But you said—" Gilbert began.

Pell's whole manner changed, and the look of a wounded animal came into his eyes. "A man says many things in anger that he doesn't mean," was his own extenuation. "Haven't you ever made the same mistake yourself, Jones? I'm sure you have. There's no use getting excited." He put up a hand. "Here we are, we three. She is my wife. But she doesn't love me, nor do I love her. She does love you. What is the best way out for all of us?"

A new Morgan Pell! They could scarcely believe the metamorphosis.

"You'd give her up?" Gilbert said.

The other looked down, and the point of his boot drew a little ring on the floor. "I can't hold her," he said, "if she doesn't want to be held, can I?"

"You don't intend—"

"To fight you?" Pell looked him squarely in the eye. "I do not. I've had all the fighting I want for one day. Now, my own course is simple. I have merely to go back to New York and forget that either of you ever existed. But your problem is more difficult. It's after eight. You've lost the ranch. And you have no money."

"But I can earn money," Gilbert said.

"A hundred dollars a month punching cows? With her in a boarding-house in Bisbee? A nice life, isn't it? Do you care to think of it, both of you?"

"I can take care of her," Gilbert was quick in saying.

"With your friend, Lopez—if he escapes—become a professional killer. My dear chap, you forget. She's used to decent people. It makes all the difference in the world." Pell turned away, lest the hard look should return to his countenance.

Lucia had been listening intently. "I know him, Gil," she whispered, loud enough for her husband to hear. "He's trying to frighten us!"

Pell faced her. "Frighten you? You're wrong, my dear. I'm merely trying to help you. That's all."

There was a step on the path—another step. Several people were approaching the adobe. Without ceremony, the door was thrust open, and Bradley was before them, excitement in his eyes. He came into the room and dim figures could be seen behind him. Was that Lopez tied up, with his back to them in the darkness? His shoulders were bent over, his hat was pulled down over his brow. His hair was matted, and two Mexicans stood guard on either side of him. Far away the stars twinkled, unmindful of his plight.

"Got any water?" Bradley asked.

"Lopez!" Pell exclaimed.

"He's got him!" came from Gilbert.

Lucia grew paler still. "Lopez! Captured!" she cried. "Oh!" And she hid her face in her hands. What a few brief hours could bring!

Bradley came close to her. "And a fine day's work for us, lady," he said, triumph in his tone. "We got him at last." Then, in the light of the candle, he caught a good view of Pell. "Say, I thought you was dead!" he cried.

"I was," laughed the other. "I mean—only a scalp wound." And he pointed to the mark on his forehead.

The figure at the door, piteous in its helplessness, never moved, never turned.

"Give me that water," Bradley continued. "I want to get him in alive if I can. All the more credit to me and my men, you see."

Morgan Pell had taken the canteen down from the wall and poured some water in it. Now he handed it to Bradley. "There you are," he said.

"Thanks," the ranger said. He went back to the door, and pushed the jug to the lips of his prisoner. "Take a swig o' that." Lopez did so. His humiliation was evident even in his back. And only a little while ago he had been the monarch of all he surveyed! Now he was the slave of Bradley, and must ride, hand-cuffed, to the jail a few miles away.

"He's wounded," said Lucia, going to the door. "You can't take him—like that!" she exclaimed. She longed for Lopez to turn and look at her; yet she longed, oddly enough, that he would not do so in the next second. It would be as difficult for her, as for him, if they saw each other. Her heart went out to him—this friend of Gilbert's—and hers.

Bradley hated this show of feminine weakness. "Why can't I take him like that? Do you think I'm going to nurse an invalid like him around these parts?" He took the canteen from one of his men. "Here," he said, handing it back to Pell.

"That's all right. Keep it; you may need it later on," said Pell, as though the jug were his to give away.

"Much obliged," the ranger thanked him, nothing loath. "Come on, Bloke. Good-night. We got him!"

He gave the bandit a shove, and two other rangers grasped him by either arm. In a twinkling they were gone, had mounted their horses and were galloping away in the starlight.

So everything was over and done with! Lucia was heart-broken for Lopez. She came back into the room, murmuring:

"Lopez! Lopez captured!" There were tears in her eyes.

Pell paced the room with new strength. His eyes were now sinister.

"Fortunately for us, my dear," he said. "For now we are certain not to be disturbed while working out a sensible solution of our little problem." He had forgotten the pain in his head. He lighted a cigarette, casually, slowly. "You will of course sue for divorce," he went on, blowing a ring to the ceiling and watching it ascend. "But there'll be no difficulty about that. I shall not contest," he added magnanimously.

She grasped at the straw. "You won't?" She almost believed him now.

"You'd win, anyway," her husband said. "But there is the question of alimony."

Gilbert swerved about. He detested the word. "Alimony!" he cried.

"An attractive woman never gets the worst of it in court," Pell coldly stated. "Suppose we settle that—right here and now. It will give you ready money. And it will save me from having to pay perhaps a greater sum—later. That is...."

Gilbert was incensed. "We don't want your money!" he cried. And Lucia treated the suggestion with the scorn it deserved.

Pell looked at them both. "No? Well, in that case, I suppose there's nothing more to be said."

"And we are free to go?" Lucia cried, unbelieving.

Her husband puffed again. "Why not? I know I shan't stop you." Suddenly he dropped his cigarette, leaned heavily against the table, swayed a bit, and put his hand to his head. The old pain was returning.

"You're suffering?" Lucia asked, alarmed. A strange pallor had come over him.

"I regret—that water—I gave away so liberally," Pell said, his voice weak.

"There's more," Gilbert cried. "I'll get it." He went hurriedly to the kitchen.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Lucia asked, sympathy in her tone. Always with her was the womanly instinct to serve, to help. Morgan was like a wounded animal to her, and as deserving of attention as any hurt thing.

"No, thank you," he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I ..."

Gilbert was back with another canteen. He went close to Pell and put the jug to his lips, standing by his side, leaning over to proffer the cooling water. As he did so, Pell stealthily reached out—Lucia could not see the movement, for she had gone over to the fireplace—and craftily removed Gilbert's gun from his hip-pocket. While in the very act of taking this man's sustenance, he was playing him a foul trick. His heart lost a beat at the easy success of his plan, the fulfillment of a wish he had been harboring for the last ten minutes. He thrust the canteen away, stood up suddenly, and pointed the stolen weapon straight at Jones.

"Now, I've got you just where I want you!" he snarled.

Lucia saw his base trickery. Why had she been so stupid as to believe in him again? Why had she not warned Gilbert? What fools they had both been!

"Gil!" she cried out; and anguish was hers—a deep, horrible moment of suffering. It was all up with them. They were as helpless as Pell had been with the bandit a few hours before. Caught, ensnared, trapped!

"Why, damn you!" Gilbert screamed, and made a futile lunge for Pell. But he was too late. The revolver was leveled at his head.

"Make a fool out of me, will you, you s——" Pell said, and his eyes glittered. A snake never looked more venomous. "I've got you now—got you both, and by God—"

"He means it, Gil!" Lucia cried, and threw herself into her lover's arms. She would die, if he died—she would die with him.

Pell stepped nearer to his intended victim. "Our wife is right," he scoffed. "It isn't killing that I mind—it's being killed that I object to."

"They'll hang you!" Gilbert warned.

Pell smiled his sardonic, evil smile. "The unwritten law works in Arizona as well as in other places." He brutally ordered Lucia to get out of his way.

But Lucia still clung to Gilbert. "I won't! I won't move!" she yelled, and her voice held the desperation of womankind.

Deliberately Pell said: "All right! Then take what's coming to you and you go to hell together, damn you both!"

He raised the gun and aimed a deadly aim.

Gilbert, in that mad moment, threw Lucia aside, to save her. He could not let her die with him, much as he hated to leave her with this fiend incarnate. "You'd better shoot straight," he cried to Pell. "Because, by God, if you miss...." With one wild lunge, he knocked the lamp from the table between them, and there was instant and terrible darkness.

Confused, Pell did not know what to do. His tongue was cleaving to the roof of his mouth, his hand seemed to freeze on the trigger.

"What the devil!" he called out. And then a figure appeared miraculously in the alcove, where one candle still burned, shedding a ghostly beam of light from a shelf. "Good God!"

A shot rang out. But it was not Pell's revolver from which it sped. Morgan Pell crumpled at the feet of Gilbert, and the bandit rushed in, the smoke still coming from his gun.

"Santa Maria del Rio de Guadaloupe!" he cried. "'Ow many time I got for to kill you to-day, any'ow? Now, damn to 'ell, mebbe you stay dead a while, eh?" He looked down at the shriveled form. And as of old he called to his henchman, "Pedro!"

And Pedro was there. "Si!" he said.

"Did I not tell you for kill zis man?" said Lopez, pointing in disgust to Morgan Pell.

Swiftly in Spanish, and frightened almost out of his wits, poor Pedro muttered something wholly unintelligible.

"Ees bum shooting! If she 'appen some more, zen I 'ave for get new Pedro. Should be too bad. Especially for you. You onnerstand?"

Terrified at the thought, poor Pedro simply shivered. "Si," he whispered.

Lopez indicated Pell's body, and took out a cigarette nonchalantly. "Take 'im away. Ees no use for nobody no more." Pedro started to lift the heavy form. "Save ze clothes and ze boots," he reminded his faithful man.

"Si," the latter said, meekly.

Venustiano appeared from the outer darkness, as if by magic, and rushed to Pedro's aid. They lifted the stricken Pell, and carried him away.

The distasteful business finished, Lopez turned to Gilbert.

"Now, zen, you all right some more, eh?" he asked.

Gilbert could not understand. "I guess so," he said, "I—I thought you were captured!"

"Me?" said Lopez in surprise, "It is not me, ees my double!"

"Your double?" Gilbert, amazed, answered.

"Ees idea what I get from ze moving pitchers."

Gilbert and Lucia stared at each other; then at the bandit.

"Then it wasn't you they captured?" Gilbert said.

He flicked the ashes from his cigarette. "I should be capture by ze damn ranger? Ees a idea!" He roared with mirth. "No, no! Long time I 'ave fix zat."

"But how? How do you work it?" Gilbert inquired, his brain in a tumult.

"I pick from my men ze best rider. I make 'im for look like me. So when ze ranger wish for chase me, 'e go while I remain be'ind. It save me moch hexercise. Say, why you no kill 'im yourself? You got ze gun." Lopez was mystified.

"I—I couldn't," Gilbert answered.

"Ees no difference from us three—me, you, and 'im," Lopez explained. "You is afraid for kill. 'E was afraid for die. Me, I am afraid for neizer! Now zen, what you do, eh?" He patted Gilbert on the shoulder.

"I don't know," the young man said. "We've got to go somewhere."

Lopez was firm. "No. You shall stay right 'ere in your 'ome sweet 'ome."

"But I've lost the place." He pointed to the little clock that was ticking out its relentless minutes. "It's after eight o'clock."

"No," said Lopez, definitely. "For at 'alf-past six-thirty, what I do? I tell you. When I am chase by ze ranger what I follow, I sink for myself eight o'clock she soon come. Suppose moggidge of my frands he meet wiz accident? Would never do!" He waved his arms. "So I goes and pays 'er myself!" He handed Gilbert a paper.

Gilbert could not believe his eyes. "What's that?" he wanted to know.

"Ees recipe," Lopez affirmed.

"But where did you get the money?" Gilbert asked, incredulously.

Lopez winked. "Ees all right."

"Where did you get it?" the American persisted.

"I rob ze bank," said Lopez; and thought nothing more of it.

"Robbed the bank?" Gilbert was wide-eyed now.

"Sure! Ees what I go to town for."

Jones turned away. "It's all off again!"

The bandit was discouraged. "No! I am become business man what are tired myself! I take ze money to lawyer what are frand for me. 'E go to ze judge what 'ave come 'ome planty dronk. 'E tell ze judge you send 'im for pay ze moggidge. Judge say sure, and 'and 'im recipe. Ees all right." And the bandit, convinced of his logic, strutted to the fireplace, and threw his cigarette away.

"But I—must pay him back," Gilbert wanted to make it clear.

"I 'ave planty money. You mus' not worry, my frand. I give you ten sousand dollar which you can send back should you be so foolish."

But Gilbert was obdurate. "I can pay it back. The oil—"

"I am sorry. Zere is no oil," the bandit informed him.

This was the consummating blow to the young man. "But you said—"

"I tell you one damn big lie," Lopez laughed. "But 'as she not a million dollar from ze 'usband which I kill?" He nodded toward Lucia.

"Oh!" cried she. "How can you speak of such things—now?"

"You don't think we'd touch one penny of that, do you?" Gilbert followed up.

Lopez looked puzzled. "Ze law is give it to you."

Disgustedly Gilbert cried, "The Law!"

"Ha!" The bandit saw his chance. "Is it possible all ze law what you love is not so damn wise, after all?" He was tickled at his own perspicacity. "However, it makes no never mind. You shall still be rich any'ow. I shall send back all ze cattle what I steal from you."

"You will? That's generous, to say the least." And Jones couldn't help smiling.

"And planty more what I shall steal for you myself personal. Now zen, is all right? You 'ave ze money, ze lady, everyzing." Surely there was nothing lacking, Lopez tried to make it plain, for complete happiness. There were no bars now in the path of content.

Yet this stupid young American was asking questions still! "But have I everything?" he said, and, stooping, picked up the gun that Pell had dropped just before he was killed.

Lopez was amazed. "Have you?" he said, and pointed to Lucia. "There is it!"

"But is it all right?" the young man persisted.

A look of scorn came over the face of the bandit. "If it makes you 'appy, what you care? You should not look ze gift 'appiness in ze face. Go on, take her. Ees nice; you like 'er."

Still Gilbert hesitated. "But I can't now."

"And why not?" the bandit asked. He was thoroughly weary of Gilbert's dilly-dallying, so foreign to his own philosophy.