the best. Dark marks had been
chalked up against his record, and his past was shady, too. There were
whispers, too, of even worse things. It was, however, a land where
nobody asked questions. It was too dangerous. Garvey was accepted in
Lost Springs because he had power.

It was a hot morning. The thermometer outside Garvey's door already
registered one hundred and five. Heat devils chased one another across
the valley. But inside the building it was comparatively cool.
Glasses tinkled on the long, smooth bar. The roulette wheel whirred,
and even at that early hour, cards were being slapped down, faces up,
at the stud-poker table. Including the customers at the bar, there
were perhaps a dozen men in the house besides Garvey himself. Garvey
was tending bar, which was his habit until noon, when his bartender
relieved him.

Gil Garvey was a menacing figure of a man, massive of build and
sinister of face. His jet-black eyebrows met in the center of his
scowling forehead, and under them gleamed eyes cold and dangerous. A
thin wisp of a dark mustache contrasted with the quick gleam of his
strong, white teeth. On the rare occasions when he laughed, his mirth
was like the hungry snarl of a wolf.

The sprinkling of drinkers at the bar strolled over to watch the faro
game, and Garvey, taking off his soiled apron, joined them, lighting a
black cigar. The ruler of Lost Springs moved lightly on his feet for
so heavy a man. Around his waist was a gun belt from which swung a
silver-mounted .44 revolver in a beaded holster.

Suddenly a slim figure reeled through the open door, and with groping,
outstretched arms, staggered forward.

"Apaches!" he choked.

Nearly every one leaped to his feet, hand on gun. Some rushed to the
door for a look outside. A score of questions were fired at the
newcomer.

"They're attackin' the stage at the foot of the pass!" explained the
messenger.

There were sighs of relief at this bit of news, for at first they had
thought that the red warriors were about to enter the town. But six
miles away! That was a different matter.

"I'm Dave Robbins," the youth went on desperately. "I've got to go
back there with help. When I left, they were holdin' 'em off. Fifty
or sixty Indians!"

Some of the saloon customers began to murmur their sympathy. But it
was evident that they were none too eager to go to the aid of the
ambushed stagecoach.

Young Robbins--covered with dust, his f