rched forward to the ground,
drawing his revolver as he fell. Scott, twisting from his grasp, ran
in a crouch toward the alley along the shadow of the buildings. Shots
spattered against the wall as his pursuers gave chase. When the Gold
Nugget vomited from its rear door a rush of humanity eager to see the
trouble, the noise of their footsteps was already dying in the distance.

Hawkes found his friend leaning against the back of the hack, his
revolver smoking in his hand.

"For God's sake, Val!" screamed Hawkes. "Did they get you?"

"Punctured my leg. That's all. But I expect they'll get Dailey."

"How come you to go out when I signaled you to stay?"

"Signaled me to stay, why--"

Collins stopped, unwilling to blame his friend. He knew now that Hawkes,
having mixed his drinks earlier in the evening, had mixed his signals
later.

"Get me a horse, Del, and round up two or three of the boys. I've got to
get after those fellows. They are the ones that held up the Limited last
week. Find out for me what hotel they put up at here. I want their rooms
searched. Send somebody round to the corrals, and let me know where they
stabled their horses. If they left any papers or saddle-bags, get them
for me."

Fifteen minutes later Collins was in the saddle ready for the chase,
and only waiting for his volunteer posse to join him. They were just
starting when a frightened Chinaman ran into the plaza with the news
that there had been shooting just back of his laundry on the edge of
town and that a man had been killed.

When the sheriff reached the spot, he lowered himself from the saddle
and limped over to the black mass huddled against the wall in the bright
moonlight. He turned the riddled body over and looked down into the face
of the dead man. I was that of the outlaw, Scott Dailey. That the
body had been thoroughly searched was evident, for all around him were
scattered his belongings. Here an old letter and a sack of tobacco, its
contents emptied on the ground; there his coat and vest, the linings
of each of them ripped out and the pockets emptied. Even the boots and
socks of the man had been removed, so thorough had been the search.
Whatever the murderers had been looking for it was not money, since
his purse, still fairly well lined with greenbacks, was found behind a
cactus bush a few yards away.

"What in time were they after?" frowned Collins. "If it wasn't his
money--and it sure wasn't--what was it? I ce'tainly w