His heart beating with new happiness, yet conscious of the stern duty still confronting him, Keith joined the others, giving them, in a whisper, a hurried account of Hope's release from the cabin, and of what she had to report.

“It's old Juan Sanchez in the front room, boys,” he added soberly, “and there is ten thousand dollars reward out for him, dead or alive.”

Joe of the “Bar X” drew in his breath sharply.

“It'll sure be dead then,” he muttered, “that cuss will never be got no other way.”

They went at it in the grim silent manner of the West, wasting little time, feeling no mercy. One by one the unconscious sleepers were aroused, each waking to find a steel barrel pressing against his forehead, and to hear a stern voice say ominously, “Not a move, Johnny; yes, that's a gun; now get up quietly, and step out here.” Resistance was useless, and the five, rendered weaponless, were herded back toward the corral. They all belonged to Hawley's outfit; one, a black-whiskered surly brute Bristoe remembered having seen in Sheridan. There was no time to deal with them then, and a “Bar X” man was placed on guard, with orders to shoot at the slightest suspicious movement.

The Indian, then, would be guarding the front of the house, and Sanchez sleeping inside. Well, the former could be left alone; his chance of escape would be small enough with Fairbain and Neb on the opposite bank. Old Sanchez was the villain they wanted—dead or alive. With this in view, and anxious to make a quick job of it, the three entered the back room, and, revolvers in hand, groped their way across to the connecting door. As Hope had described, this had been securely fastened by a stout wooden bar. Bristoe forced it from the sockets, not without some slight noise, and Keith, crouching down at one side, lifted the latch. “Keep down low, boys,” he cautioned, “where he can't hit you.”

With one quick push he flung the door wide open, and a red flash lit the room. There were two sharp reports, the bullets crashing into the wall behind them, the sudden blaze of flame revealing the front door open, and within it the black outline of a man's figure. Two of the men fired in instant response, leaping recklessly forward, but were as quickly left blind in the darkness, the outer door slammed in their faces. Outside there was a snarl of rage, another shot, a fierce curse in Spanish; then Keith flung the door wide open, and leaped down the step. As he did so he struck a body, and fell forward, his revolver knocked from his hand. Rising to his knees, the dim light of the stars revealed a man already half across the stream. Suddenly two sparks of fire leaped forth from the blackness of the opposite bank; the man flung up his hand, staggered, then went stumbling up the stream, knee deep in water. He made a dozen yards, reeling as though drunk, and fell forward, face down across a spit of sand. Keith stared out at the black, motionless shape, felt along the ground for his lost gun, and arose to his feet. Bristoe had turned over the dead body at the foot of the steps, and was peering down into the upturned face.

“It's the Indian,” he said grimly, “Sanchez must 'a' mistook him fer one of us, and shot the poor devil.”

“And Sanchez himself is out yonder on that sand-spit,” and Keith pointed; then lifted his voice to make it carry across the stream. “Come on over, Doctor, you and Neb. We've got the gang. Bring that body out there along with you.”

The “Bar X” man waded out to help, and the three together laid the dead Mexican outlaw on the bank beside the Indian he had shot down in his effort to escape. Keith stood for a moment bending low to look curiously into the dead face—wrinkled, scarred, still featuring cruelty, the thin lips drawn back in a snarl. What scenes of horror those eyes had gazed upon during fifty years of crime; what suffering of men, women, children; what deeds of rapine; what examples or merciless hate. Juan Sanchez!—the very sound of the name made the blood run cold. “Dead or alive!” Well, they had him at last—dead; and the plainsman shuddered, as he turned away.

Taking Fairbain with him, and hastily reviewing late occurrences to him, Keith crossed over to the corral, realizing that their work—his work—was not wholly done until Hawley had been located. With this quest in mind he strode straight to the black-bearded giant who had guarded Hope from Sheridan.

“What is your name?” he asked sharply.

The man looked up scowling.

“Hatchett,” he answered gruffly.

“Well, Hatchett, I am going to ask you a question or two, and advise you to reply just about as straight as you know how. I am in no mood to-night for any foolishness. Where is 'Black Bart' Hawley?”

“How in hell should I know?”

“You do know, just the same. Perhaps not to an inch, or a mile, but you know near enough where he is, and where he has been since you left Sheridan.”

“If I do, I'm damned if I'll tell you.”

“No? Well now, Hatchett, listen to me,” and Keith's voice had in it the click of a steel trap. “You'll either answer, and answer straight, or we'll hang you to that cottonwood in about five minutes. If you want a chance for your miserable life you answer me. We have our way of treating your kind out in this country. Sit up, you brute! Now where did Hawley go after he left you?”

“To Fort Larned.”

“After those fresh horses?”

“Yes.”

“He didn't bring them to you; I know that. Where has he been since?”

“Topeky and Leavenworth.”

“How do you know?”

“He writ me a note the boss herder brought.”

“Hand it over.”

Keith took the dirty slip of paper the man reluctantly extracted from his belt, and Fairbain lit matches while he ran his eyes hastily over the lines. As he ended he crushed the paper between his fingers, and walked away to the end of the corral. He wanted to be alone, to think, to decide definitely upon what he ought to do. Hawley, according to the schedule just read, must have left Larned alone early the day before; this night he would be camped at the water-hole; with daybreak he expected to resume his lonely journey across the desert to the Salt Fork. For years Keith had lived a primitive life, and in some ways his thought had grown primitive. His code of honor was that of the border, tinged by that of the South before the war. The antagonism existing between him and this gambler was personal, private, deadly—not an affair for any others—outsiders—to meddle with. He could wait here, and permit Hawley to be made captive; could watch him ride unsuspectingly into the power of these armed men, and then turn him over to the law to be dealt with. The very thought nauseated him. That would be a coward's act, leaving a stain never to be eradicated. No, he must meet this as became a man, and now, now before Hope so much as dreamed of his purpose—aye, and before he spoke another word of love to Hope. He wheeled about fully decided on his course, his duty, and met Fairbain face to face.

“Jack,” the latter said earnestly, “I read the note over your shoulder, and of course I know what you mean to do. A Southern gentleman could not choose otherwise. But I've come here to beg you to let me have the chance.”

“You?” surprised and curious. “What greater claim on that fellow's life have you than I?”

The pudgy hands of the doctor grasped the plainsman's shoulders.

“It's for Christie,” he explained brokenly. “She was the one he tried to run away with. You—you know how I feel.”

“Sure, I know,” shaking the other off, yet not roughly. “But it happened to be Miss Waite he took, and so this is my job, Fairbain. Besides, I've got another score to settle with him.”

He wasted little time upon preparations,—a few brief words of instruction to Bristoe; a request to the doctor not to leave Hope alone; the extracting of a promise from the two “Bar X” men to return to Larned with the prisoners. Then he roped the best horse in the corral, saddled and bridled him, and went into the cabin. She had a light burning, and met him at the door.

“I thought you would never come, but they told me you were unhurt.”

“Not a scratch, little girl; we have been a lucky bunch. But I have had a great deal to look after. Now I shall be obliged to ride ahead as far as the water-hole, and let you come on with the others a little later, after you get breakfast. You can spare me a few hours, can't you?”

His tone was full of good humor, and his lips smiling, yet somehow she felt her heart sink, an inexplicable fear finding expression in her eyes.

“But—but why do you need to go? Couldn't some of the others?”

“There is a reason which I will explain later,” he said, more gravely. “Surely you can trust me, Hope, and feel that I am only doing what it seems absolutely necessary for me to do?” He bent down, and kissed her. “It will be only for a few hours, and no cause for worry. Good-bye now, until we meet to-night at the water-hole.”

The east was gray with coming daylight as he rode plashing across the stream and up the opposite bank. She watched hint, rubbing the blinding mist from her eyes, until horse and man became a mere dark speck, finally fading away completely into the dull plain of the desert.