mai, whom they had sent to the Springs with a message and
to get Chauvenet's mail. Armitage, they had learned, used the Lamar
telegraph office and they had decided to carry their business elsewhere.

While they waited in the bare upper room of the inn for Zmai, the big
Servian tramped up the mountain side with an aching head and a heart
heavy with dread. The horse he had left tied in a thicket when he plunged
down through the Claiborne place had broken free and run away; so that he
must now trudge back afoot to report to his masters. He had made a mess
of his errands and nearly lost his life besides. The bullet from Oscar's
revolver had cut a neat furrow in his scalp, which was growing sore and
stiff as it ceased bleeding. He would undoubtedly be dealt with harshly
by Chauvenet and Durand, but he knew that the sooner he reported his
calamities the better; so he stumbled toward Lamar, pausing at times to
clasp his small head in his great hands. When he passed the wild tangle
that hid Armitage's bungalow he paused and cursed the two occupants in
his own dialect with a fierce vile tongue. It was near midnight when he
reached the tavern and climbed the rickety stairway to the room where the
two men waited.

Chauvenet opened the door at his approach, and they cried aloud as the
great figure appeared before them and the lamplight fell upon his dark
blood-smeared face.

"The letters!" snapped Chauvenet.

"Is the message safe?" demanded Durand.

"Lost; lost; they are lost! I lost my way and he nearly killed me,--the
little soldier,--as I crossed a strange field."

When they had jerked the truth from Zmai, Chauvenet flung open the door
and bawled through the house for the innkeeper.

"Horses; saddle our two horses quick--and get another if you have to
steal it," he screamed. Then he turned into the room to curse Zmai, while
Durand with a towel and water sought to ease the ache in the big fellow's
head and cleanse his face.

"So that beggarly little servant did it, did he? He stole that paper I
had given you, did he? What do you imagine I brought you to this country
for if you are to let two stupid fools play with you as though you were a
clown?"

The Servian, on his knees before Durand, suffered the torrent of abuse
meekly. He was a scoundrel, hired to do murder; and his vilification by
an angered employer did not greatly trouble him, particularly since he
understood little of Chauvenet's rapid German.

In half an ho