ense," said I. "What do you care for that gang?"

"It would look like running away. No, I certainly don't intend to leave
now."

CHAPTER XXIX

THE CHALLENGE

We went out to see Yank, with the full intention of spending the evening
and cheering him up. He was dozing, restless, waking and sleeping by
fits and starts. We sat around in the awkward fashion peculiar to very
young boys in the sickroom; and then, to our vast relief, were shoved
out by Senora Morena. With her we held a whispered conversation outside,
and completed satisfactory arrangements for Yank's keep. She was a
chuckling, easy-going, motherly sort of creature, and we were very lucky
to have her. Then we returned in the gathering dusk to our camp under
the trees across the way.

A man rose from a seat against a tree trunk.

"_Good_ evenin', stranger," said he.

"Good evening," responded Johnny guardedly.

"You are the man who stuck up Scar-face Charley in Morton's place, ain't
you?"

"What's that to you?" replied Johnny. "Are you a friend of his?"

His habitual air of young carelessness had fallen from him; his eye was
steady and frosty, his face set in stern lines. Before my wondering eyes
he had grown ten years older in the last six hours. The other was
lounging toward us--a short, slight man, with flaxen moustache and
eyebrows, a colourless face, pale blue eyes, and a bald forehead from
which the hat had been pushed back. He was chewing a straw.

"Well, I was just inquirin' in a friendly sort of way," replied the
newcomer peaceably.

"I don't know you," stated Johnny shortly, "nor who you're friends to,
nor your camp. I deny your right to ask questions. Good night."

"Well, good night," agreed the other, still peaceable. "I reckon I
gather considerable about you, anyhow." He turned away. "I had a notion
from what I heard that you was sort of picked on, and I dropped round,
sort of friendly like; but Lord love you! I don't care how many of you
desperadoes kill each other. Go to it, and good riddance!" He cast his
pale blue eyes on Johnny's rigid figure. "Also, go to hell!" he remarked
dispassionately.

Johnny stared at him puzzled.

"Hold on!" he called, after a moment. "Then you're not a friend of this
Hound?"

The stranger turned in slow surprise.

"Me? What are you talking about?" He looked from one to the other of us,
then returned the few steps he had taken. "I believe you don't know me.
I'm Randall, Danny Randall."

"