"How are ye to help it? You don't intend killin' him?"

"Not yet; thar's a golden _egg_ in that goose. His silence can be
secured without resortin' to that. He must be kep' separate from the
others."

"But some o' them 'll have to look after him, or he may cut away from
us."

"Fernandez will do that. I can trust him with Clancy's name,--with
anything. Slip out, Luke, and see if they've got it among them. If
they have, it's all up, so far as that game goes. If not, I'll fix
things safe, so that when we've spent Monsheer Dupre's silver, we may
still draw cheques on the bank of San Antonio, signed Ephraim Darke."

Chisholm obeying, brings back a satisfactory report.

"The boys know nothin' o' Clancy's name, nor how we disposed o' him. In
coorse, Watts, Stocker, an' Driscoll, haint sayed anything 'bout that.
They've told the rest we let him go, not carin' to keep him; and that
you only wanted the yellow fellow to wait on ye."

"Good! Go again, and fetch Fernandez here."

Chisholm once more turns out of the tent, soon after re-entering it, the
half-blood behind him.

"Nandy," says Borlasse; calling the latter by a name mutually
understood. "I want you to take charge of that mulatto, and keep him
under your eye. You musn't let any of the boys come nigh enough to hold
speech wi' him. You go, Luke, and give them orders they're not to."
Chisholm retires.

"And, Nandy, if the nigger mentions any name--it may be that of his
master--mind you it's not to be repeated to any one. You understand
me?"

"I do, _capitan_."

"All serene. I know I can depend on ye. Now, to your duty."

Without another word, the taciturn mestizo glides out of the tent,
leaving Borlasse alone. Speaking to himself, he says:--

"If Quantrell's turned traitor, thar's not a corner in Texas whar he'll
be safe from my vengeance. I'll sarve the whelp as I've done 'tother,--
a hound nobler than he. An' for sweet Jessie Armstrong, he'll have
strong arms that can keep her out o' mine. By heavens! I'll hug her
yet. If not, hell may take me!"

Thus blasphemously delivering himself, he clutches at the bottle of
brandy, pours out a fresh glass, and drinking it at a gulp, sits down to
reflect on the next step to be taken.

CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE.

A TRANSFORMATION.

Night has spread its sable pall over the desert plain, darker in the
deep chasm through which runs Coyote Creek. There is light enough in
the encampment of the pr