The four men stayed at Muletown that night and drove across the hot, dry levels of the Fernandez plain in the early morning. In the foothills of the Hermosa mountains there was a little place called Agua Fria—Cold Water. It was a short distance off the main road, but travelers across the plain frequently went thither to refresh themselves and their beasts with the cool waters which it furnished. It was only a small Mexican ranch, irrigated by a bountiful flow of water from a never failing spring. Cottonwood trees surrounded the house, and around the spring grew a little peach orchard. The ruins of a mining camp, long since deserted, could be seen on the hill above.

Emerson Mead and his companions turned aside into the road leading to the Agua Fria ranch and drew rein in the shade of the peach trees. A woman was washing clothes beside the spring and a man came from a near-by field where he was at work. They chatted with the couple while the horses were allowed to rest in the shade. Presently Tuttle and Ellhorn remounted and started slowly back, leaving Mead and Harlin in the buggy, ready to go, but exchanging some last words with the Mexican. The road curved below the house, through the trees, and as Tuttle and Ellhorn came out on the other side they saw a party of horsemen approaching from the main road. At once they recognized John Daniels and Jim Halliday, who were riding in the front. Behind them came half a dozen others, and in the rear of the company they saw Colonel Whittaker with some pack horses. Tom and Nick drew back into the cover of the trees and conferred a moment over the probable intentions of the party.

“They are all armed,” said Tom. “Six-shooters and Winchesters on every one.”

“I’ll bet they’re after Emerson, Tommy,” Nick exclaimed. “They want trouble, and I reckon we’d better begin to give it to ’em right now.”

They drew their rifles from beside their saddles, for the men were still too far away for the use of revolvers. Then Tom looked at Nick doubtfully.

“Nick, what do you-all think would be Emerson’s judgment? You know he always wants the other side to begin the fight.”

“My judgment is that the sooner this fight is begun the better. Them fellows are out here lookin’ for trouble, and I say, if a man wants trouble, Lord! let him have it!”

He raised his rifle to his shoulder and sent a bullet singing down the road, saying to Tom as he fired: “This is just to let ’em know we’re here.”

The bullet creased the neck of Halliday’s horse, which reared and plunged with sudden fright. The whole party checked their horses in surprise and looked intently toward the clump of cottonwoods from which the shot had come. Tom raised his gun to his shoulder, saying, “You’ve started the fun, Nick, so here goes,” and he sent a rifle ball whizzing past Daniels’ ear. Harlin and Mead dashed around the house in the buggy, jumped out, and tied their horses in the rear of the trees. Tuttle and Ellhorn dismounted and dropped their bridles.

The approaching party paused for a moment in a close group and held an excited conference. Then they separated and, drawing their guns from the saddle scabbards, sent a volley into the grove. Four rifle bullets made quick answer and set their horses to rearing. It was some time before the beasts could be made quiet enough for the shots to be returned, and in the meantime bullets were pattering all about them. Colonel Whittaker stopped far in the rear with the pack horses, beyond the reach of the rifle balls, and the others made a sudden dash forward. Checking their horses, they fired a concerted volley into the trees. One of the bullets scorched the band of Tom’s hat.

“Nick,” said Tom, “that was Daniels fired that shot. He’s gettin’ too impudent. You take care of him while I clean my gun. Don’t you let him get any closer, but don’t hurt him, for he’s my meat.”

He went down on the ground cross-legged and swabbed his gun-barrel while the bullets pattered on the ground about him and thudded into the trees and ploughed up the dirt at his feet. Nick bent his rifle on the sheriff and sent a bullet through his hat brim and another through his horse’s ear, and bit his bridle with one and tore his trouser leg with another. One dropped and stung on the beast’s fetlock as Tom sprang to his feet exclaiming, “Now I’ll get him!”

Daniels first checked his horse, and then lost control of it as the bridle broke, and when the bullet struck its fetlock it wheeled and went flying to the rear. The sheriff felt a tingle in his left arm, and, maddened, he seized the severed parts of his bridle and forced the horse to face about. Then he bent forward, apparently taking careful aim at one of the figures beneath the trees, but before he could fire, his horse reared and plunged and went down in a heap beneath him.

In the meantime, Nick, Emerson, and Judge Harlin were exchanging rapid shots with the rest of the sheriff’s party. Those of the latter went rather wild, because their frightened horses made it impossible for them to take careful aim. And also by reason of the constant dancing about of the beasts, the accurate markmanship of the men under the trees was not of much avail. Nick found that his magazine was empty and called out:

“Tom, give me some of your hulls! I used up all mine keepin’ your darned sheriff back. Gimme some hulls quick!”

He dropped a handful of cartridges into the magazine and raised his rifle with the remark, “Now see ’em scatter!”

The sharp, crashing din of the Winchesters kept steadily on. One of the Daniels party fell over on his horse’s neck, and two of their animals became unmanageable. Daniels had knelt behind his fallen horse and across its body he was taking careful aim. Tom felt a bullet graze his cheek, and saw whence it had come. “I’ll put a stop to that,” he exclaimed, and in another moment the sheriff tumbled over with a bullet in his shoulder. Mead felt a sharp pain in one side, and knew that hot lead had kissed his flesh. It was the first wound he had ever received. With a scream of pain a horse fell, struggling, beneath its rider. From one man’s hands the rifle dropped and his right arm hung helpless by his side. Another horseman swayed in his saddle and fell to the ground, and his horse galloped to the rear, dragging the man part of the way with his foot in the stirrup.

Still the remnant of horsemen held their own against the steady rain of bullets from the trees. Presently a flesh wound made Halliday’s horse unmanageable and it bolted straight for the grove. The four men paused with fingers on triggers, looking at him in wonder.

“Who would have thought he had the sand to do that!” Mead exclaimed.

Suddenly his horse turned and flew toward the rear. “Whoo-oo-oo-ee!” came a derisive shout from the grove, followed by a volley of bullets. The other horsemen took advantage of the diverted firing, and made a dash forward, dropping their rifles across their saddles and using their revolvers. It was evident that they hoped, by this sudden charge, to dislodge the enemy and force a retreat.

“Out and at ’em, boys,” yelled Nick. “Whoo-oo-oo-ee!” And the four men rushed from under cover of the trees, rifles in hand, straight toward the approaching horsemen.

Dropping on one knee and firing, then rising and running forward a few steps, and dropping and firing again, they dashed toward the enemy. Surprised and confused by this sudden move, the horsemen halted, irresolute, then turned and fled down the road.

“Buffaloed!” yelled Mead.

“After ’em, boys!” shouted Judge Harlin. And the four started on the run after the retreating enemy.

“Chase ’em to Plumas!” yelled Nick.

“And learn ’em to let us alone after this!” bellowed Tom, in a voice that reached the ears of the flying party, above the muffled roar of their horses’ hoofs.

Halliday had got his horse under control again by the time he reached the place where Colonel Whittaker stood guard, beside the pack horses, and after a few hasty words with Whittaker he started back. When he saw the rout of his party he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and waving it aloft he came galloping on.

“Look at that, will you!” yelled Nick. “They want to surrender!”

“I reckon they want to have a conference,” said Judge Harlin.

The four men halted and stood with their guns in their hands, waiting Halliday’s approach.

“Emerson,” he called, “do you stick to what you told Mr. Wellesly?”

“What do you mean?”

“That you’d submit to arrest when we could prove that Will Whittaker died by violence.”

“Certainly, I do.”

“Then hand over your guns, for we’ve got his body!”

“Let me see it first. If I can recognize it I’ll keep my word.”

“It’s back there where his father is.”

“Well, bring it here.”

“Will you keep the truce?”

“Yes, if you do.”

Halliday galloped down the road again, and presently returned with Colonel Whittaker. Between them was one of the pack horses with something lashed to its back. They walked their horses to the spot where the four men stood, untied the pack, spread a blanket on the ground, and laid on it the ghastly, mangled remains of what had once been a man’s body.

“We found it in the White Sands,” Halliday explained. “It had been buried nearly at the top of the ridge and the coyotes had dug it out and this is all they had left. But his father here, and every one of us, have identified it.”

Mead and his friends looked the body over carefully. The face had been gnawed by coyotes and picked by buzzards until not a recognizable feature was left. The shining white teeth glared from a lipless mouth. Closely cropped black hair still covered the head. On one hand was a plain gold ring set with a large turquoise.

“You must remember that ring,” said the father. Mead nodded. Colonel Whittaker slipped it from the finger, dried and burned by the sun, and showed the four men the initials, “W. W.,” on the inside. The clothing was badly tattered and much of it had been torn away. Part of a pongee silk shirt still hung on the body. On the inside of the collar were the young man’s initials worked in red silk. “His mother did that,” said Colonel Whittaker. Around the neck was a dark-colored scarf, and in it was an odd, noticeable pin, a gold nugget of curious shape. The four men had all seen Will Whittaker wear it many times. A ragged remnant of a coat hung on the mangled body. In the breast pocket Colonel Whittaker showed them some letters and a small memorandum book. From the book had been torn some leaves and all the remaining pages were blank. But on the inside of the leather cover the name, “Will Whittaker,” had been printed in heavy black letters. Rain and sun had almost obliterated the addresses on the two envelopes in the pocket, but enough of the letters could still be made out to show what the words had probably been.

Halliday turned the body over and showed them three bullet holes in the back, in the left shoulder blade. They were so close together that their ragged edges touched one another, and a silver dollar would have covered all of them. Apparently, the man had been shot at close range and the bullets had gone through to the heart.

Mead finished his inspection of the body and turned to Halliday. All the rest of the party had come up and dismounted and were standing beside their horses around the grisly, mangled thing and the four men who were examining it. Several of the men were wounded and blood was dripping over their clothing. A red mark across Tuttle’s cheek showed how narrow had been his escape, and a bloody stain on Mead’s shirt told the story of a flesh wound.

“Jim,” Mead began, and then paused, looking Halliday squarely in the eyes, while his own friends and the sheriff’s party edged closer, all listening breathlessly. None of them had any idea what he was going to say, whether it would be surrender, or defiance and a declaration of continued war. Nick and Tom exchanged glances and cocked their revolvers, which they held down beside their legs. “Jim,” Mead went on, “I acknowledge nothing about this body except that, as far as I can see, it seems to be the body of Will Whittaker and he seems to have died from these pistol shots. But I reckon it calls, merely on the face of it, mind, for me to make good the word I gave to Wellesly. Here are my guns.”

He handed his rifle to Halliday, unfastened his cartridge belt and passed that and his revolver to the deputy sheriff. Among the Whittaker party there were some glances of surprise, but more nods of congratulation. Nick and Tom looked at each other in indignant dismay. Tom’s eyes were full of tears and his lips were twitching. “What did he want to do that for?” he whispered to Nick. “We had ’em sure buffaloed and on the run, and now he’s plum’ spoiled the whole thing!”

“I reckon it was the best thing you could do, Emerson,” said Judge Harlin, “but I’m sorry you had to do it.”

Mead saw Daniels in the crowd around the body. “Hello, John,” he called, “I thought we tipped you over just now. Hurt much?”

“No, not much. Only a scratch on the shoulder.”

The entire party went around to the spring and bathed one another’s wounds, and the Mexican woman tore her sheets into strips and made bandages for them. No one had been killed, but there were a number of flesh wounds and some broken bones. They hired horses of the Mexican to take the place of those that had been killed and then started for Las Plumas, Mead riding between Daniels and Halliday. Judge Harlin, with Nick and Tom, followed some distance in the rear.

Tom looked after them, as they rode away, with angry eyes. His huge chest was heaving with sobs he could scarcely control. “Damn their souls,” he exclaimed fiercely to Nick, “if Emerson wasn’t among them I’d open on ’em right now.”

“How we could buffalo ’em,” assented Nick.

“It was a damned shame,” Tuttle went on indignantly, “for Emerson to give up that way. We could have cleaned ’em all out and got rid of ’em for good, if he hadn’t given up. We’ll never get such a chance again, and the Lord knows what will happen to Emerson now!” And Tom bent his huge frame over his gun and bowed his head on his hands, while a great sob convulsed his big bulk from head to foot. He and Judge Harlin argued the question all the way to Las Plumas, and the judge well-nigh exhausted his knowledge of law and his ingenuity in argument in the effort to convince his companion that Emerson Mead had done the best thing possible for him to do. But the last thing Tom said as they drew up in front of Judge Harlin’s office was:

“Well, it was a grand chance to clean out Emerson’s enemies, for good and all, and make an end of ’em, so that he could live here in peace. It was plumb ridiculous not to do it.”