ither; what are they? I've got a day's ride
ahead of me."

"Maybe you have; maybe you haven't. That depends on what you say to my
proposition. You're looking for Vidal Nunez, they tell me?"

"And I'm going to get him; as much as anything for the sake of swatting
the devil around the stump."

"Meaning me?" Galloway shrugged. "Well, here's my song and dance: This
county isn't quite big enough; you drop your little job and clear out
and leave me alone and I'll pay you ten thousand dollars now and
another ten thousand six months from now."

"Offer number one," said Norton, manifesting neither surprise nor
interest even. "Twenty thousand dollars to pull my freight. Well, Jim
Galloway, you must have something on the line that pulls like a big
fish. Now, let's have the other barrel."

"I have suggested that you clean out; the other suggestion is that, if
you won't get out of my way, you get busy on your job. Vidal Nunez
will be at the Casa Blanca to-night. I have sent word for him to come
in and that I'd look out for him. Come, get him. Which will you take,
Rod Norton? Twenty thousand iron men or your chances at the Casa
Blanca?"

It was Norton's turn to grow thoughtful. Galloway was rolling a
cigarette. The sheriff reached for his own tobacco and papers. Only
when he had set a match to the brown cylinder and drawn the first of
the smoke did he answer.

"You've said it all now, have you?" he demanded.

"Yes," said Galloway. "It's up to you this time. What's the word?"

Norton laughed.

"When I decide what I am going to do I always do it," he said lightly.
"And as a rule I don't do a lot of talking about it beforehand. I'll
leave you to guess the answer, Galloway."

Galloway shrugged and swung his horse back into the trail.

"So long," he said colorlessly.

"So long," Norton returned.

CHAPTER XI

THE FIGHT AT LA CASA BLANCA

It was something after six o'clock when Jim Galloway rode into San
Juan. Leaving his sweat-wet horse in his own stable at the rear of the
Casa Blanca he passed through the patio and into a little room whose
door he unlocked with a key from his pocket. For ten minutes he sat
before a typewriting machine, one big forefinger slowly picking out the
letters of a brief note. The address, also typed, bore the name of a
town below the border. Without signing his communication he sealed it
into its envelope and, relocking the door as he went out, walked
thoughtfully