vil-
may-care method. Once the debonair youth said to him: "Buck, you go
into a scrap like it was a funeral. Not," he added, with a
complimentary wave of his tin cup, "but what it generally is."

Buckley's conscience was of the New England order with Western
adjustments, and he continued to get his rebellious body into as many
difficulties as possible; wherefore, on that sultry afternoon he chose
to drive his own protesting limbs to investigation of that sudden
alarm that had startled the peace and dignity of the State.

Two squares down the street stood the Top Notch Saloon. Here Buckley
came upon signs of recent upheaval. A few curious spectators pressed
about its front entrance, grinding beneath their heels the fragments
of a plate-glass window. Inside, Buckley found Bud Dawson utterly
ignoring a bullet wound in his shoulder, while he feelingly wept at
having to explain why he failed to drop the "blamed masquerooter," who
shot him. At the entrance of the ranger Bud turned appealingly to him
for confirmation of the devastation he might have dealt.

"You know, Buck, I'd 'a' plum got him, first rattle, if I'd thought a
minute. Come in a-masque-rootin', playin' female till he got the drop,
and turned loose. I never reached for a gun, thinkin' it was sure
Chihuahua Betty, or Mrs. Atwater, or anyhow one of the Mayfield girls
comin' a-gunnin', which they might, liable as not. I never thought of
that blamed Garcia until--"

"Garcia!" snapped Buckley. "How did he get over here?"

Bud's bartender took the ranger by the arm and led him to the side
door. There stood a patient grey burro cropping the grass along the
gutter, with a load of kindling wood tied across its back. On the
ground lay a black shawl and a voluminous brown dress.

"Masquerootin' in them things," called Bud, still resisting attempted
ministrations to his wounds. "Thought he was a lady till he gave a
yell and winged me."

"He went down this side street," said the bartender. "He was alone,
and he'll hide out till night when his gang comes over. You ought to
find him in that Mexican lay-out below the depot. He's got a girl down
there--Pancha Sales."

"How was he armed?" asked Buckley.

"Two pearl-handled sixes, and a knife."

"Keep this for me, Billy," said the ranger, handing over his
Winchester. Quixotic, perhaps, but it was Bob Buckley's way. Another
man--and a braver one--might have raised a posse to accompany him. It
was Buckley's rule to disca