e
ranches to fill out my farm--and when I want 'em I get 'em, see? As
Davy Crockett said to the coon, 'Better come on down before I shoot,
and save powder.'"

"Shoot," said Bob, contemptuously.

"Now look here," Reedy lurched still closer to Bob, and put his plump
fingers down on the bar as though holding something under his hand; "I
got unlimited capital back of me--million dollars--two million--all I
want. That's on 'Merican side--on this side--I got pull. See? Fifty
ways I can squelch you--just like that." He squeezed his plump, soft
hand together as though crushing a soft-shelled egg.

"You are drunk," Bob said, disgustedly, "and talking through a sieve."
He moved away from him and sauntered round the hall. At one of the
tables he came upon Rodriguez, the man he was looking for.

He looked more Spanish than Mexican, had a moustache but did not curl
it, a thin face and soft brown eyes, and the pensive look of a poet who
is also a philosopher.

"Well?" Bob questioned in an undertone as they drifted outside of the
gambling hall and stood in the shadows beyond the light of the open
doors. "Did you learn anything?"

Rodriguez nodded. "They have two, three plans to make you get out.
Senor Madrigal is--what you call hem?--detec--detectave in Mexico.
Ver' bad man. He work for Senor Jenkins on the side."

Bob left his Mexican friend. He stood in the shadow of the great
gambling hall for a moment, pulled in opposite directions by two
desires. He remembered a red spot on Reedy Jenkins' cheek just under
his left eye that he wanted to hit awfully bad. He could go back and
smash him one that would knock him clear across the bar. On the other
hand, he wanted to get on his horse and ride out into the silence and
darkness of the desert and think. After all, smashing that red spot on
Reedy's cheek would not save his ranch. He turned quickly down the
street to where his horse was hitched.

CHAPTER XI

One of the hardest layers of civilization for a woman to throw off is
the cook stove. She can tear up her fashion plates, dodge women's
clubs, drop her books, forsake cosmetics and teas, and yet be fairly
happy. But to the last extremity she clings to her cook stove.

Imogene Chandler had her stove out in the open at a safe distance from
the inflammable weed roof of the "house." The three joints of
stovepipe were held up by being wired to two posts driven in the ground
beside it.

The girl alternat