The excitement caused by the arrival of James Z. Premble caused everyone to forget the horseman who had been seen approaching from the north. And Mr. Premble, somewhat against his inmost desire, continued for a time to fill the centre of the picture.

The assemblage quite filled the shack—crowded it, in fact. Premble, the New Yorker, barely paused for introductions before diving into the food that Mrs. Crump set before him. Lewis sat and smoked in the lean-to, by the stove; Gilbert lounged beside the door. Mackintavers sat in the corner, chewing a cigar. Coravel Tio was rolling a cigarette with great care, and sighed a little as he licked it; leaning forward, he scratched a match upon the floor, and took advantage of a pause in the conversation to address James Z. Premble.

“An odd name, seÑor,” he said, softly. “A very odd name! I have never met any one whose initial was that of Z. May I ask what name it stands for, seÑor?”

Mr. Premble looked at his questioner, and in his shrewd eyes there showed a swift and sudden hesitation; but Coravel Tio was lighting his cigarette with much absorption.

“Zacariah,” responded the New Yorker. “I don’t like the name, myself. Never use it.”

“Ah, yes! Now that I remember, I have met others—there is a name Zebulon, I think, eh? Yes, Zebulon. So you are the gentleman of whom your firm wrote me, eh? I am glad to meet you, seÑor, very glad. You have letters and so forth? You see, I am part owner of this property, seÑor, and while I do not doubt you in the least, I desire to make quite sure of things before talking business.”

Laying down his knife and fork, Premble once again inspected Coravel Tio, who was now looking directly at him. Something in those gentle, mournful black eyes seemed to cause the city man uneasiness and disquiet. He reached into his pocket, nodding.

“Eh? Sure, I have plenty of papers that will establish my identity and prove my authority to deal with you. A little bit hasty, aren’t you? No trouble, though. Glad to have you assure yourself——”

He produced a sheaf of papers and passed them intact, as though entirely certain of their contents, to Mrs. Crump. That lady, her keen blue eyes suddenly perplexed and watchful, handed on the papers to Coravel Tio. The latter, in silence, began to unfold and look at them, one after another. Premble continued his meal, and fell to talking with the others.

Presently Coravel Tio came to the end of his cigarette. He rose and tossed the butt through the open doorway, where Gilbert was lounging. His eyes snapped a message to those of Gilbert; in turn, Gilbert made a slight motion. Lewis rose and shoved aside the curtain from the window, as though desiring more air, and then stood watching.

Coravel Tio returned to his stool. At another pause in the conversation, he tapped the refolded documents on his knee.

“These are all correct, Mr. Premble,” he said, gently. “Do you know—ah, there is something that puzzles me! Now, when I had the pleasure of meeting you in Las Vegas last month, your name was different; it was Zebulon and not Zacariah. And you looked different, seÑor. Then, if I remember rightly, you wore a moustache, and your eyes were another colour, and you had a stronger chin than you have at present.”

A sudden tense silence had come upon the room. James Z. Premble looked very red, then his features paled again. Imperceptibly, his right hand fluttered toward his left armpit.

“Don’t do it!” said Lewis, from the window, and Mr. Premble gazed into the muzzle of a revolver. And: “Go slow!” said Gilbert, from the doorway, carelessly fondling another revolver. Mr. James Z. Premble set both hands upon the table in front of him.

The chauffeur, seeing the general trend of events, quietly slid from his stool and vanished beneath the table. Mrs. Crump sat motionless, looking from one person to another. Sandy Mackintavers swallowed hard and made as if to rise, but Lewis shifted eyes and weapon slightly, and Sandy changed his mind about moving.

“I was afraid of something like this.” The voice of Coravel Tio was gently apologetic. “You see, the real James Zebulon Premble always keeps his engagements to the minute—unless something has happened to him. He is now two days overdue here. Of course, it would be possible for another man to waylay him and to obtain his papers; it would be quite possible for that other man to come here under the name of Premble, and to carry out a slight business transaction.”

“Smooth guy, aren’t you?” sneered Premble. “You’ll have a hell of a time proving anything on me!”

“My dear seÑor, I don’t want to prove anything on you!” said Coravel Tio in pained surprise. “No, no, far from it! But I suspect that a certain firm by the name of the Williams Manufacturing Company, a firm that is very jealous of its reputation, might like to know that you are in its employ. Si! Of course, you’ll not reveal to us for whom you are working?”

“I’ve nothing to say,” sullenly returned Premble. He looked much perturbed.

“Very well. Gilbert, take the gun from the seÑor’s left armpit and lead him to his automobile. Tie him in his automobile and allow him to repose in peaceful meditation. That is all. Young man, kindly come from beneath the table and resume your meal!”

The chauffeur, looking sheepish, crawled into view again. Gilbert fulfilled the orders that had been given him, and departed with Mr. Premble.

Sandy Mackintavers, although trying to appear impassive and unconcerned, signally failed in his endeavour. He was completely astounded, swept off his feet, by the falling of Coravel Tio’s mask. He was suddenly aware of the fact that in Coravel Tio he had a damnably clever antagonist.

Now, too late, Sandy began to suspect a thousand things that did not appear on the surface. Conjectures flitted through his brain. Suspicion that the hand of Coravel Tio was a very powerful hand, and that this hand was set against him, deepened into hard certainty. Yet—not even Coravel Tio could know the truth! No one could know that Mackintavers and the false Premble were friends, were working in concert! There was yet hope.

“Aiblins, now, there’s no tellin’ about these mining sharks!” observed Sandy in righteous accents. “I’ve had experiences of my own in that line, aye! But if you’re willing to talk over the proposition we discussed last night——”

Coravel Tio looked at him. Coravel Tio laughed gently, softly, very acridly.

“My dear seÑor!” he said. “You knew about the real Premble and his business here. Your friend met the real Premble and did his work very well. You planned things nicely. You came and made us your proposition, knowing that we would refuse it, knowing that we would be assured that you and Premble were at enmity; knowing that we would sell out to SeÑor Premble—eh? And Premble would buy the mine for you. Ah, yes!

“It was very cleverly planned, and very well executed. But now, seÑor, you had better go and sit beside your friend, and be driven back to town with him. There I think that you will receive some interesting information. I would like to tell you about it myself, but——”

At this point Mrs. Crump came to her feet. She understood the whole trick at last, she understood the deep cunning of Mackintavers, and she was white with fury.

“Coravel Tio, this skunk sure makes me blush to see him! Now, I aim to give him a right good hidin’, which same he deserves plenty. Get outside, ye coyote—hustle!”

From the wall Mrs. Crump seized her trusty blacksnake. Thoroughly alarmed, Mackintavers attempted no protests but backed through the doorway. Before the lady, however, uprose Coravel Tio, and his hand restrained her from pursuit.

“No,” he said, softly, looking into her eyes. “I have reasons, seÑora; good reasons.”

Mrs. Crump flushed, then paled again. Restraint came hard to her.

“I aim to punish him,” she rasped.

“That is already arranged.” Coravel Tio smiled at her. “That has been arranged—by the gods of the San Marcos. You will, please, leave everything in my hands, seÑora. Everything! I wish to handle everything here to-day. Everything!”

Mrs. Crump stared at him, puzzled. Then she tossed away the whip.

“All right,” she assented, sullenly, angrily. “I won’t say another damned word.”

By this time, Mackintavers was somewhere outside. Lewis still stood by the window. Gilbert was presumably down at the automobiles with his prisoner.

But now the voice of Gilbert came to them. It was lifted in a shout of surprise, a shout of aggrieved anger and amazement.

“Hey! Hey, you feller! What the hell you doin’ there? Hey, Mis’ Crump! Hustle out here!”

Those in the shack hastened outside—all except the chauffeur. Scenting further trouble, that gentleman grabbed his plate and again retired beneath the table, to finish his meal in security.

As Mrs. Crump, standing out in the sunlight, surveyed the situation, she became aware that the previously discerned horseback rider had arrived. He had evidently ridden right over the long flank of the hogback, past the mine workings, into the caÑon. Fifty yards up the caÑon, fifty yards above the two shacks, lay a horse that was weary unto death, a horse that had been ridden hard and furiously, without mercy.

Not far from the horse was something white. This was a piece of new, white paper that had been fastened to Mrs. Crump’s original location notice.

Down below the shacks, between them and the automobiles, was another scrap of white; another piece of white paper fastened over another location notice. Standing only a few yards from the shack, and hurriedly talking to Mackintavers, stood the rider who had just arrived. The man was Abel Dorales. He had just put up those two notices, and he paid no attention whatever to the threatening approach of Gilbert.

“Dorales!” gasped Mrs. Crump, and whirled. “Lewis! Here! Gi’me that gun!”

“Stop!” Coravel Tio grasped her arm. “Stop, seÑora! Force does nothing. Leave things in my hands, si servase! Lewis, go and tell Gilbert to be quiet—pronto!”

The potently gentle voice of Coravel Tio held firm command. He was obeyed. Gilbert stood motionless, scowling; Mrs. Crump stayed her hand.

Mackintavers walked quickly toward Mrs. Crump and Coravel Tio; eagerness shone in his eyes, and exultation. Behind him strode Abel Dorales, fixedly regarding Mrs. Crump. The half-breed’s features were thinly cruel; his nostrils quivered slightly; a shadowy smile curved his lips into sneering lines.

Gilbert turned and walked toward the new notice posted by Dorales.

“Just got some news,” said Mackintavers, jerkily. “Abel is goin’ to stay and tell ye bout it. I don’t s’pose ye got any objection if I light out for Magdalena, aiblins, now?”

Coravel Tio was rolling a cigarette, quite unconcernedly. He flashed Sandy a smile.

“Object? Why should we object, seÑor? By all means, go! And take your friend with you, your friend whose name is Zacariah and not Zebulon. Vaya con Dios, seÑor!”

Mackintavers was plainly in haste to be off. He called to the chauffeur, who came from the shack and joined him. Together the two walked rapidly toward the car wherein was reposing the bogus James Z. Premble.

“Y’ain’t goin’ to let them varmints go?” Mrs. Crump surveyed Coravel Tio with pleading indignation. “After them tryin’——”

Gracefully, Coravel Tio waved his cigarette. “Si, seÑora! Let them go. Let them both go. There are larger things, much larger things, awaiting us.”

“But that feller Premble!”

“Let them both go, seÑora. We have larger things ahead.”

Mrs. Crump sniffed in uncomprehending disgust; but she gave tacit assent.

The engine of the car began to whir; the whir became a roaring hum, then a deep vibrant thrumming that lifted through the caÑon. The car, with its three men, moved away and leaped into speed.

“Hey!” The voice of Gilbert, who had been reading the new location notice, drifted up to them. “Hey! This guy is jumpin’ our claim! He’s posted notices in the name o’ Mackintavers. What the hell!”

“Come up here, Gilbert,” said Coravel Tio, “and keep quiet. We are to hear some news. Ah, SeÑor Dorales, have you lunched? We are glad to welcome you.”

Dorales did not reply. He did not move, but upon his lips lingered that thin, shadowy smile that was like the stamp of a cruel jeer. Gilbert heavily came up and rejoined the others.

They stood there at the doorway of the shack—Mrs. Crump, Coravel Tio, Gilbert, and Lewis. Facing them stood Abel Dorales; he seemed to be waiting until the automobile should have gotten away beyond pursuit. Already it was a dot, lessening amid a trail of dust. In the bearing of Abel Dorales was a commanding air, a deep significance, a sneering sense of power. He was in no hurry to explain.

The sun beat down in vertical, sickening waves; the heat was suffocating, insufferable. It filled the caÑon like an oven. To the left lay the spent horse, panting, loose-tongued, exhausted, unable even to reach the trickle of water below. No other thing moved within sight. Behind and above rose the long hogback that formed the north wall of the caÑon. It shut out from view all that lay beyond, all that lay over toward the mountains and the larger caÑon that drew out from the mountains to the north.

The ground seemed to radiate heat in shimmering waves. To one side lay the dry and withered body of the rattler Mrs. Crump had killed—what was left by the preying tiny things of the earth. Somewhere among the rocks lay that reptilian head, what was left of it. Inconspicuous it was, unseen, dead jaws agape and long fangs glimmering like needles in the hot, sickening sunlight.

“Yes,” said Abel Dorales at last. “Yes. I have some news for you.”

He ignored that offer of luncheon. He ignored the lowering, menacing looks of Lewis and Gilbert. He ignored the suave Coravel Tio. He fixedly regarded Mrs. Crump, hatred flaming in his dark eyes and quivering at his nostrils. He had hated her from the depths of his soul ever since that day he had jumped her claim over in the Mogollons, that day when she had shot him down like a dog.

There was nothing melodramatic in his bearing. He was grimed with dust and dirt. He was perspiring profusely; his lined and evil face was streaming with sweat against its sleek bronze. He had ridden hard, and he was tired.

Suddenly he shifted his gaze and looked around, to right and left, at the shimmering and empty caÑon. He looked at the farther hill on the other side. He looked up at the long hogback which closed in those five persons, shutting out all the rest of the world like a vast door of rock. He looked up toward the mountain peaks that showed above the head of the caÑon. Some inward sense seemed to whisper to him a warning against eavesdroppers; but all the visible world was glowing with insufferable heat, and was deserted. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“What for ye postin’ notices on my lands?” demanded Mrs. Crump. “Huh? How come ye sent Mackintavers off to file the claims at the recordin’ office, huh? What ye expect to gain by all that fool play, huh? Speak up, ye mangy dog!”

Abel Dorales looked at her, and smiled thinly. “One moment,” he said.

Turning, Abel Dorales strode up the caÑon to where lay his exhausted horse. The poor brute made a painful struggle as if to rise; forefeet, neck, and shoulders heaved convulsively, then collapsed again. Abel Dorales kicked the horse with contempt. From the saddle he took a battered little yellow suitcase which had been tied there and he started back.

At a word from Coravel Tio, the others moved into the slender shadow cast by the north side of the shack, the side that faced uphill to the hogback. There Abel Dorales rejoined them. There he set the battered little suitcase on the ground.

“I should have given this to Sandy,” he said, “but I forgot it. Now, Mrs. Crump, your friend Shea stole this from the ranch of Mackintavers. Here is what he stole.”

With a swift movement he opened the suitcase and dumped out the seven stone gods. They strewed the ground in grotesque attitudes. One fell upright, grinning stonily as if delighted by the feat. Dorales tossed the little suitcase away.

“Ah, yes!” It was Coravel Tio who spoke, unexpectedly. He spoke as though in recognition. “The gods of the San Marcos! But you are wrong, seÑor. Our friend Shea did not steal these things. They were stolen by a Navaho, a buck who was hired to steal them because he knew the ranch house of Mackintavers very well. He was hired by Thomas Twofork, who comes from the Cochiti pueblo. These gods were the gods of the San Marcos, you understand, and they were the gods of Thomas Twofork’s fathers. That Navaho buck was killed in an accident. How SeÑor Shea obtained these gods, I do not know.”

Dorales laughed.

“It doesn’t matter particularly now. Anyway, we’ll concede that Shea didn’t steal them, eh? All right. Sandy wanted these gods back, so I fetched them along. In my hurry to get this property located, I forgot to give them——”

“Where’s Thady Shea?” cried out Mrs. Crump, suddenly. “Where is he?”

Abel Dorales looked at her, his lips curving in cruel enjoyment.

“Dead. This location was in his name. I believe that he is without heirs; since he is dead, I believe that his location reverts to the government. Whoever is first to file upon it, gets it. You see? The notices have been posted. Sandy has gone to file the location—now do you understand?”

“Liar!” Mrs. Crump flung the word at him in blind, gasping incredulity. “He ain’t dead! Thady Shea ain’t dead!”

“Oh, you need not blame me!” said Dorales, and laughed again. “I followed him, yes; but I came too late. I found him in a caÑon over on the divide—Beaver CaÑon.”

“There was a Mexican refugee camped there with his family; a sheep-herder. Shea had come and had drunk mescal. He had become drunk, beastly drunk. I am not certain of what took place, because unfortunately I arrived too late—but the woman was dead, and Shea had fallen over the edge of a gully, breaking his neck. He had been shot, also. I think the woman must have shot him—first.”

Under the lash of these slow words, delivered with a frightful appearance of truth, Mrs. Crump had gone quite livid. A hoarse, inarticulate growl came from her throat. The mortal pallor of a fury beyond all control came upon her; she trembled with sheer passion.

Then she started forward—but the hand of Coravel Tio gripped into her wrist.