her pay for this. But ain’t she got sand in her craw? She’s surely hating me proper.” He laughed again in remembrance of the whole episode, finding in it something that stirred his blood immensely.
After the trap had swept round a curve out of sight he disappeared in the mesquite and bear-grass, presently returning with the roan that had been ridden by the escaped convict.
“Whoever would suppose she was the sister of that scurvy scalawag with jailbird branded all over his hulking hide? He ain’t fit to wipe her little feet on. She’s as fine as silk. Think of her going through what she is to save that coyote, and him as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. There ain’t any limit to what a good woman will do for a man when she thinks he’s got a claim on her, more especially if he’s a ruffian.”
With this bit of philosophic observation he rolled a cigarette and lit it.
“Him fall into bad company and be led away?” he added in disgust. “There ain’t any worse than him. But he’ll work her to the limit before she finds it out.”
Leisurely he swung to the saddle and rode down into the valley of the San Xavier, which rolled away from his feet in numberless tawny waves of unfeatured foot-hills and mesas and washes. Almost as far as the eye could see there stretched a sea of hilltops bathed in sun. Only on the west were they bounded, by the irregular saw-toothed edge of the Frenchman Hills, silhouetted against an incomparable blue. For a stretch of many miles the side of the range was painted scarlet by millions of poppies splashed broadcast.
“Nature’s gone to flower-gardening for fair on the mountains,” murmured the rider. “What with one thing and another I’ve got a notion I’m going to take a liking to this country.”
The man was plainly very tired with rapid travel, and about the middle of the afternoon the young man unsaddled and picketed the animal near a water-hole. He lay down in the shadow of a cottonwood, flat on his back, face upturned to the deep cobalt sky. Presently the drowse of the afternoon crept over him. The slumberous valley grew hazy to his nodding eyes. The reluctant lids ceased to open and he was fast asleep.
Chapter II.
Lieutenant Fraser Interferes
The sun had declined almost to a saddle in the Cuesta del Burro when the sleeper reopened his eyes. Even before he had shaken himself free of sleep he was uneasily aware of something wrong. Hazily the sound of voices drifted to him across an immense space. Blurred figures crossed before his unfocused gaze.
The first thing he saw clearly was the roan, still grazing in the circle of its picket-rope. Beside the bronco were two men looking the animal over critically.
“Been going some,” he heard one remark, pointing at the same time to the sweat-stains that streaked the shoulders and flanks.
“If he had me on his back he’d still be burning the wind, me being in his boots,” returned the second, with a grating laugh, jerking his head toward the sleeper. “Whatever led the durned fool to stop this side of the line beats me.”
“If he was hiking for Chihuahua he’s been hitting a mighty crooked trail. I don’t savvy it, him knowing the country as well as they say he does,” the first speaker made answer.
The traveler’s circling eye now discovered two more men, each of them covering him with a rifle. A voice from the rear assured him there was also a fifth member to the party.
“Look out! He’s awake,” it warned.
The young man’s hand inadvertently moved toward his revolver-butt. This drew a sharp imperative order from one of the men in front.
“Throw up your hands, and damn quick!”
“You seem to have the call, gentlemen,” he smiled. “Would you mind telling me what it’s all about?”
“You know what it’s all about as well as we do. Collect his gun, Tom.”
“This hold-up business seems to be a habit in this section. Second time to-day I’ve been the victim of it,” said the victim easily.
“It will be the last,” retorted one of the men grimly.
“If you’re after the mazuma you’ve struck a poor bank.”
“You’ve got your nerve,” cried one of the men in a rage; and another demanded: “Where did you get that hawss?”
“Why, I got it—” The young man stopped in the middle of his sentence. His jaw clamped and his eyes grew hard. “I expect you better explain what right you got to ask that question.”
The man laughed without cordiality. “Seeing as I have owned it three years I allow I have some right.”
“What’s the use of talking? He’s the man we want, broke in another impatiently.
“Who is the man you want?” asked their prisoner.
“You’re the man we want, Jim Kinney.”
“Wrong guess. My name is Larry Neill. I’m from the Panhandle and I’ve never been in this part of the country till two days ago.”
“You may have a dozen names. We don’t care what you call yourself. Of course you would deny being the man we’re after. But that don’t go with us.”
“All right. Take me back to Fort Lincoln, or take me to the prison officials. They will tell you whether I am the man.”
The leader of the party pounced on his slip. “Who mentioned prison? Who told you we wanted an escaped prisoner?”
“He’s give himself away,” triumphed the one edged Tom. “I guess that clinches it. He’s riding Maloney’s hawss. He’s wounded; so’s the man we want. He answers the description—gray eyes, tall, slim, muscular. Same gun—automatic Colt. Tell you there’s nothin’ to it, Duffield.”
“If you’re not Kinney, how come you with this hawss? He stole it from a barn in Fort Lincoln last night. That’s known,” said the leader, Duffield.
The imperilled man thought of the girl bing toward the border with her brother and the remembrance padlocked his tongue.
“Take me to the proper authorities and I’ll answer questions. But, I’ll not talk here. What’s the use? You don’t believe a word I say.”
“You spoke the truth that time,” said one.
“If you ever want to do any explaining now’s the hour,” added another.
“I’ll do mine later, gentlemen.”
They looked at each other and one of them spoke.
“It will be too late to explain then.”
“Too late?”
Some inkling of the man’s hideous meaning seared him and ran like an ice-blast through him.
