from the way his face was
peppered. Five thousand dollars--oh, hell!"

His eyes followed the outline of the valley, able to distinguish the
darker silhouette of the cliffs outstanding against the sky sprinkled
with stars. Far away toward the northern extremity a dull red glow
indicated the presence of a small fire.

"Herders," Brennan soliloquised, his thought instantly shifting.
"Likely to be two, maybe three ov 'em out there; an' then there's them
two on guard at the head o' the trail. I reckon they're wonderin' what
all this yere shootin' means; but 'tain't probable they'll kick up any
fuss yet awhile. We can handle them all right, if they do--hullo,
there! What's comin' now?"

It was the thud of a horse's hoofs being ridden rapidly. Brennan
dropped to the ground, and skurried out of the light. He could
perceive nothing of the approaching rider, but whoever the fellow was
he made no effort at secrecy. He drove his horse down the bank and
into the stream at a gallop, splashed noisily through the water, and
came loping up the nearer incline. Almost in front of the bunk-house
he seemed suddenly struck by the silence and gleam of lights, for he
pulled his pony up with a jerk, and sat there, staring about. To the
marshal, crouching against the earth, his revolver drawn, horse and man
appeared a grotesque shadow.

"Hullo!" the fellow shouted. "What's up? Did you think this was
Christmas Eve? Hey, there--Mendez; Cateras."

The little marshal straightened up, and took a step forward; the light
from the cabin window glistened wickedly on the blue steel of his gun
barrel.

"Hands up, Bill!" he said quietly, in a voice carrying conviction.
"None of that--don't play with me. Take your left hand an' unbuckle
your belt--I said the left. Now drop it into the dirt."

"Who the hell are you?"

"That doesn't make much difference, does it, as long as I've got the
drop?" asked the other genially. "But, if you must know to be
happy--I'm the marshal o' Haskell. Go easy, boy; you've seen me shoot
afore this, an' I was born back in Texas with a weapon in each hand.
Climb down off'n that hoss."

Lacy did so, his hands above his head, cursing angrily.

"What kind of a low-down trick is this, Brennan?" he snapped, glaring
through the darkness at the face of his captor. "What's become of
Pasqual Mendez? Ain't his outfit yere?"

"His outfit's here all right, dead an' alive," and Brennan chuckled
cheerfully, "but