tinkle of a guitar, perhaps from the Four Jacks. Somewhere a woman began
to sing, and the liquid Spanish words lulled him asleep.

He roused suddenly, his hand flashing under his head before he returned to
full consciousness, fingers tightening on the Colt he had placed there.
Not the mare--no--rather the pound of running feet and then a cry....

"No, _senor_, no! _No es verdad_--it is not true! Teodoro, he meant no
harm--!"

Drew scrambled to the window. Out in the alley below, three figures reeled
in the circle of light afforded by the door lantern. The Kentuckian marked
the upward swing of a quirt lash, saw a smaller shape fling up an arm in a
vain attempt to ward off the blow. Another, the one who cried out, was
belaboring the flogger with empty fists, and the voice was that of a girl!

To slide down the loft ladder was again nearer instinct than planned
action. Shiloh snorted as Drew's boots rapped on the stable floor. The
Kentuckian had no idea of the reason for that fight, but he ran out with
the vague notion that an impartial referee was needed.

"You there--what's goin' on!" Sergeant Rennie came to life again in the
snapped demand.

The one who fled the quirt came up against the side of the building almost
shoulder to shoulder with Drew. And he was only a boy, about Callie's age,
his black hair flopping over eyes wide with shock and fright. Drew's hand
moved, and the lantern light glinted plainly on the barrel of the Colt.
For a moment they were all still as if sight of the weapon had frozen
them.

The attacker faced Drew directly. He was young and handsome, if you
discounted a darkening bruise already puffing under one eye, a lip cut and
swelling, a scowl twisting rather heavy brows and making an ugly square of
his mistreated mouth.

"An' who th' devil are you?"

His voice was thick and slurred. Drew guessed that he had not only been in
a fight but that he was partly drunk. Yet, as he faced the stranger eye to
eye, the Kentuckian was as wary as he had been when bellying down a
Tennessee ridge crest to scout a Yankee railroad blockhouse. He knew what
he fronted; this was more than a drunken bully--a really dangerous man.

That queer little moment of silence lengthened, shutting the two of them
up--alone. Drew could not really name the emotion he felt. Deliberately he
tried to subdue the sensation as he turned to the girl.

"What's the matter?"

At first glance he might have thought her a boy, f