ntryman
of yours from the La Questa valley over to the Rancho Palomar to kill
Don Miguel Farrel. I have the man's name, I know the hour you
telephoned to him, I know exactly what you said to him and how much you
paid him to do the job. Well, this friend of yours overplayed his
hand; he didn't succeed in killing Farrel, but he did succeed in
getting himself captured."

He paused, with fine dramatic instinct, to watch the effect of this
broadside. A faint nervous twitch of the chin and the eyelids--then
absolute immobility. The Potato Baron had assumed the "poker face" of
all Orientals--wherefore Bill Conway knew the man was on his guard and
would admit nothing. So he decided not to make any effort to elicit
information, but to proceed on the theory that everything was known to
him.

"Naturally," he continued, "that man Pablo has ways and means of making
even a stubborn Jap tell everything he knows. Now listen, O child of
Nippon, to the white man's words of wisdom. You're going to depart
from El Toro in a general northerly direction and you're going to do it
immediately if not sooner. And you're never coming back. The day you
do, that day you land in the local calaboose with a charge of
conspiracy to commit murder lodged against you. We have the witnesses
to prove our case and any time you're tried by a San Marcos County jury
before a San Marcos County judge you'll rot in San Quentin for life.
And further: If Miguel Farrel should, within the next two years, die
out of his own bed and with his boots on, you will be killed on general
principles, whether you're guilty or not. Do I make myself clear or
must I illustrate the point with motion pictures?"

"Yes, sir. 'Scuse, please. Yes, sir, I zink I go very quick, sir."

"Three cheers! The sooner the quicker--the next train, let us say.
I'll be at the station to see you off."

He was as good as his word. The Potato Baron, mounting painfully the
steps of the observation car, made hasty appraisal of the station
platform and observed Bill Conway swinging his old legs from his perch
on an express truck. He favored Okada with a very deliberate nod and a
sweeping, semi-military salute of farewell.

When the train pulled out, the old contractor slid off the express
truck and waddled over to his automobile. "Well, Liz," he addressed
that interesting relic, "I'll bet a red apple I've put the fear of
Buddha in that Jap's soul. He won't try any more tricks in San