As Rathburn wended his way to an obscure restaurant on a side street of the little town which was the county seat of Mesquite County, his thoughts were busy with what he had learned from the sheriff. He knew the official had been right when he said that it would react in Rathburn’s favor if he gave himself up. Some of the counts on which he would be indicted undoubtedly would be quashed; others he might disprove. There was a chance that he might get off lightly; in any event he would have to spend a number of years in prison.

Rathburn looked up at the bright sky. At the end of the street he could see the desert, and far beyond, the blue outlines of the mountains. It seemed to him that the sunshine was brighter on this deadly morning when he struggled with troubled thoughts. Having always lived in the open, liberty meant everything to him.

But constantly his thoughts reverted to Laura Mallory. What did she expect of him? What would she think if he were to give himself up? Her talk of the compass––his conscience––bothered him. Why should she say such a thing if she didn’t feel more than a friendly interest in him? Did she care for him then?

Rathburn laughed mirthlessly, as he entered the eating house. There was no doubt of it––he was a fool. He continued to think, as he ate; by the time he had finished he found himself in a bad 216 mental state. He wiped some moisture from his forehead, as he left the restaurant. For a moment he felt panicky. He was wavering!

The tenor of his thoughts caused him to abandon his caution. He turned the corner by the State Bank of Hope and walked boldly down the street. Few pedestrians were about. None took any special notice of him, and none recognized him. He turned in at the resort he had visited when he first arrived that morning.

He started, as he entered the place. A deep frown gathered on his face. Gomez, Eagen’s Mexican henchman, was at the bar. At first Rathburn feigned ignorance of the Mexican’s presence; but Gomez smiled at him, his white teeth glistening against his swarthy skin.

Rathburn marveled at the audacity of the Mexican, who undoubtedly was one of those who had held up the stage the day before, in coming boldly into town. Then he recollected that the sheriff had mentioned he had an idea of who was responsible for that job, but had been unable to get a line on his man. Eagen and his gang were evidently well covered up. If such were the case, Eagen himself might be in town.

It was because he thought he might learn something from Gomez that he finally acknowledged the fellow’s greeting by a nod.

The Mexican left the bar and walked up to him.

“We are not afraid to come in town, Mr. Coyote,” he murmured.

“Drop that name,” said Rathburn sharply in an undertone. “Is Eagen here?”

“He is here,” replied Gomez with another display of his white teeth. “You want to see him? He is up talking with Mr. Doane.”

Doane! Rathburn remembered the name instantly 217 as being the same which had been spoken by Laura Mallory the night before. He remembered, too, the man who had been there and who had driven away to town in the little car. He surmised that this man had been Doane; and it had been he who had brought the information of Rathburn’s arrival and the posse’s pursuit to the girl.

“You want to see him?” asked Gomez craftily.

Rathburn had a consuming aversion for the wily Mexican. He hated the shifty look in his eyes and his oily tongue.

“Not yet,” he answered shortly.

“He will be here maybe,” said Gomez eagerly. “It is you change your mind?”

Rathburn scowled. The Mexican then knew all about the proposition Eagen had made to him the night before. Perhaps he could get more information from him than he had suspected.

“What job is it Eagen is planning?” he asked in a low voice.

There were several men at the bar now, and both Rathburn and the Mexican were keeping an eye upon them.

“Oh, that he will have to tell you himself when you are ready,” Gomez replied.

Rathburn snorted in keen disgust. But Gomez sidled up to him.

“You go to the Mallory rancho last night,” he whispered. “You are not the only one there last night.” His smile flashed again, as Rathburn looked at him quickly.

“There was another there before,” he continued; “Mr. Doane. He goes there, too. You have been away a long time, and Mr. Doane take the advantage.”

Rathburn’s eyes were narrowing, and the Mexican evidently took his face for an encouraging sign.

“Mr. Doane––he is not lucky at cards,” continued Gomez. “He like to play, and he play lots; but not too well. Maybe he have more luck in love––while you are away.”

“What do you mean?” asked Rathburn through his teeth.

“Oh, you do not know?” The Mexican raised his black brows. “While you are away, Mr. Doane make hay while the sun shine bright. He was there much. He was there last night before you. He tries hard to steal your seÑorita before you come, and he will try to keep her now.” He winked slyly.

Rathburn suddenly grasped him by the throat. “What are you tryin’ to say?” he asked sternly, shaking the Mexican like a rat.

Gomez broke away, his black eyes darting fire. “You are a fool!” he exclaimed. “You get nothing. Even your woman, she is stole right under your eyes. Doane, he goes there, and he gets her. She fall for him fast. Then she talks to you with sugar in her mouth, and you believe. Bah! You think the SeÑorita Mallory–––”

Rathburn’s open palm crashed against the Mexican’s mouth.

“Don’t speak her name, you greaser!”

Gomez staggered back under the force of the slap. His eyes were pin points of fire. He raised his right hand to his mouth and then to the brim of his sombrero. His breath came in hissing gasps, as the hatred blazed in his glittering eyes.

Rathburn’s face was white under its heavy coating of tan. He saw the few men at the bar turn and look in their direction, and he realized instinctively that these men were gamblers and shady characters who were probably friends of Eagen and his gang.

“I give you my regards,” cried Gomez in a frenzy of rage. “You––gringo!”

His right hand tipped his sombrero in a lightning move, and there was a flash in the sunlight filtering through the back windows, as Rathburn’s gun barked at his hip.

Gomez crumpled backward to the floor, as the knife dropped from his grasp at the beginning of the throw.

Rathburn, still holding his smoking gun ready, walked rapidly past the men at the bar and gained the open through the door at the rear.