u ride to the left and I'll go this way. Back in
two shakes."

"Mighty queer where everyone has disappeared to," Hawkins commented.
"When you were here before, Bud, did they look as though they were
getting ready to light out?"

"Nope--just the opposite. As I told you, Delton insisted that he was
going to stay. I can't imagine what scared them off. Unless Delton
decided discretion was the better part of valor. It certainly doesn't
seem logical that they'd make tracks like this, after what Delton said."

"Here comes the Kid. Got someone with him; hasn't he?" asked Bud.

"He sure has--a Mex, I'd say."

"The lone survivor!" the Kid yelled as he rode toward them. "Bud,
recognize him?" and he pushed the Mexican, whom he held by the collar,
forward.

"Why, he's the fellow we saw in the restaurant! Remember, Mr. Hawkins?
The one you pointed out; isn't he?"

"You mean Pete Alvido? Come 'ere, son--let's have a look at you." The
deputy peered closely. "Nope! Sure looks like Pete, but it isn't.
'Nough like him to be his brother, though. Hey, Mex, what's your name?
What are you doin' around here?"

The Mexican didn't answer. He simply shrugged his shoulders, and stood
silent, his face expressionless.

"Speak up, boy! What's your name?"

Still no reply.

"Lost your tongue, Mex?" the Kid broke in. "Take my advice, and answer
when you're spoken to." The Kid touched his gun suggestively. Not
that he would have thought of enforcing his half-uttered threat, but he
simply wanted to show the Mexican they meant business.

At this the man gesticulated toward his throat, and a guttural sound
came from his lips.

"Why the pore cuss means he's dumb!" exclaimed Billee Dobb, who had
ridden in. "Can't speak! Hey you! No spik? No _habla_?"

The Mexican shook his head forcibly.

"A dumb Greaser!" cried the Kid. "Well, he's not much of a find. He's
the only one left of this outfit, though. Hey, Mex! Where's the boss?
Gone?"

With a widespread gesture of his arms the man indicated his lack of
knowledge of the subject. At least he seemed to understand a little
English.

"Can't get much out of him," Hawkins commented. "Well, boys, seems
like you'll have no more trouble takin' possession of the Shootin'
Star. It's yours. Say--" and he turned to their captive. "What's
your job? Vaquero? Herder? Cook?" At the last word the Mexican
nodded vigorously. "You're in luck, boys. Here's a cook all ready f