is own hurts,
he might have perceived that Zurich himself was considerably subdued.

"It is about time for you to take steps again," said Zurich. "Glance over
this letter. It came on the stage just now. Dated at Tucson last night."

Mitchell read this:

DEAR MISTER: Johnson is back and no pitch hot. Look out for yourself. He
over-reached me; he knows who got Bat Wiley's money, and he can prove it.

He thinks I am doing a dive for Mexico. But I'm not. I am watching him.
I think he means to make a dash for the mine to-night, and I'm going to
follow him till I get the direction. Of course he may go south into
Mexico. If he does he'll have too big a start to be caught. But if he
goes west, you can head him off and cut sign on him. Slim is at
Silverbell, waiting with a car to bring you a wire from me, which I'll
send only if Johnson goes west, or thereabouts. If I send the message
at all, it should follow close on this letter. Slim drives his car like
a drunk Indian. Be ready. Johnson is too much for me. Maybe you can
handle him.

D.

"I would suggest Patagonia," said Zurich kindly. "No; get yourself sent
up to the pen for life--that'll be best. He wouldn't look for you there."

* * * * *

Zurich found but three of his confederacy available--Jim Scarboro and
Bill Dorsey, the Jim and Bill of the horse camp and the shooting
match--and Eric Anderson; but these were his best. They made a pack; they
saddled horses; they filled canteens--and rifles.

Slim's car came to Cobre at half-past nine. The message from Dewing ran
thus:

For Fishhook Mountain. Benavides, S., J., and another. Ten words.

* * * * *

Five minutes later the four confederates thundered south through the
night. At daylight they made a change of horses at a far-lying Mexican
rancheria, Zurich's check paying the shot; they bought two five-gallon
kegs and lashed them to the pack, to be filled when needed. At nine in
the morning they came to Fishhook Mountain.

Fishhook Mountain is midmost in the great desert; Quijotoa Valley,
desolate and dim, lies to the east of it, gullied, dust-deviled, and
forlorn.

The name gives the mountain's shape--two fishhooks bound together back to
back, one prong to the east, the other to the west, the barbs pointing to
the north. Sweetwater Spring is on the barb of the eastern hook; three
miles west, on the main shank, an all but impassable trail climbed to