s and
shirt]

THINE OWN TONIA.

Sandridge quickly explained to his men the official part of the
missive. The rangers protested against his going alone.

"I'll get him easy enough," said the lieutenant. "The girl's got him
trapped. And don't even think he'll get the drop on me."

Sandridge saddled his horse and rode to the Lone Wolf Crossing. He
tied his big dun in a clump of brush on the arroyo, took his
Winchester from its scabbard, and carefully approached the Perez
_jacal_. There was only the half of a high moon drifted over by
ragged, milk-white gulf clouds.

The wagon-shed was an excellent place for ambush; and the ranger got
inside it safely. In the black shadow of the brush shelter in front of
the _jacal_ he could see a horse tied and hear him impatiently pawing
the hard-trodden earth.

He waited almost an hour before two figures came out of the _jacal_.
One, in man's clothes, quickly mounted the horse and galloped past the
wagon-shed toward the crossing and village. And then the other figure,
in skirt, waist, and mantilla over its head, stepped out into the
faint moonlight, gazing after the rider. Sandridge thought he would
take his chance then before Tonia rode back. He fancied she might not
care to see it.

"Throw up your hands," he ordered loudly, stepping out of the
wagon-shed with his Winchester at his shoulder.

There was a quick turn of the figure, but no movement to obey, so the
ranger pumped in the bullets--one--two--three--and then twice more;
for you never could be too sure of bringing down the Cisco Kid. There
was no danger of missing at ten paces, even in that half moonlight.

The old ancestor, asleep on his blanket, was awakened by the shots.
Listening further, he heard a great cry from some man in mortal
distress or anguish, and rose up grumbling at the disturbing ways of
moderns.

The tall, red ghost of a man burst into the _jacal_, reaching one
hand, shaking like a _tule_ reed, for the lantern hanging on its nail.
The other spread a letter on the table.

"Look at this letter, Perez," cried the man. "Who wrote it?"

"_Ah, Dios_! it is Senor Sandridge," mumbled the old man, approaching.
"_Pues [84], senor_, that letter was written by '_El Chivato_,' as he
is called--by the man of Tonia. They say he is a bad man; I do not know.
While Tonia slept he wrote the letter and sent it by this old hand of
mine to Domingo Sales to be brought to you. Is there anythin