Doom Canyon/Chapter 6

It was close to sunset when he arrived. He did not really expect to see her. She would be out on her brother's ranch, or her brother-in-law's, whichever it was. He tried to figure which rancher was likely to have such a sister, which rancher's wife, and gave it up. But he meant to cultivate the stage driver and find out what he could about it.

Up till now Strong had neither been woman-shy or woman-crazy. Now he was in earnest. This perhaps was a form of madness since he did not seem able to reason about it, but he was sincere.

The stage did not leave again until the next day, and he found the driver at the hotel in all the reflected glory of having been attacked by Apaches, recounting his tale for the fortieth time to an admiring audience, bringing gifts, while the Jehu added artistic touches with fictional license. The drummer, who had sat with him on the box, had succumbed to the numerous rounds of drinks in which he had been practically forced to partake, but the driver had absorbed all of them without much more harm than stimulus to his imagination. His breath exhaled alcohol as perfume comes from an uncorked scent bottle, his pockets bristled with cigars, his speech was a trifle blurry but it flowed on like a river and Strong realized that he would probably not have to ask any questions.

“This railroad hombre's got a bad valve in his pump,” said the driver. “He's got no right to be out in a ha'r-raisin' section like this. The first whoop makes his heart turn over an' git all clogged up, and leaves him weak as a kitten. The Injin agent, he's all riled up at the cheek of them wards of his not recognizin' the fact he's aboard an' he pumps a ca'tridge inter the breech. The ham drummer we put to bed a li'le while ago, he takes my guns—me bein' some busy with handling them hawsses, believe me, arrers makin' a pin cushion out of 'em'—an' he blazes away.

“An' then the li'le lady—God bless her!—face like an angel, voice like a wild clarino; like a medder lark. She takes the railroader's gun an' she lets go out of the right-hand winder. She kin shoot some, I'm tellin' you. It ain't easy to hit an Injin streakin' it on a painted mustang an' only hittin' the high spots. But she's cool as ice in' Greenland. An' she gits one of 'em right in the laig. C'uldn't have done it better myself.

“Do you know what she says when I congratulates her about it afterward? She says it was thrillin' an' wonderful. 'Wasn't you afraid,' I asks her? 'What fer?' says she. 'Thet wouldn't have got us nothin'.' Beat thet? The stage comp'ny ought to give her a gold medal studded with diamonds.”

“What's her name?” asked some one.

The stage driver scratched his head.

“Somethin' like Hansen, or Nansen—anyway it's on the waybill. I know her first name is Lucy, 'cause thet was what the feller called her who drove up in the rig an' stopped the stage seven miles out of Laguna. He was foreman for her brother-in-law, he said. She told me she expected some one to meet her but I reckon she thought it would be in Laguna. She seemed some surprised, but the feller told her they was savin' miles an' time, an' her folks was anxious to see her. Said her sister was kind of poorly an' her brother-in-law was lookin' out for her. Thet started her off, quick. Last I seen of her was a cloud of dust, an' her leanin' out to wave back at me. Say, they could cut my laig off if I thought she'd nurse me—both of 'em. You should have seen her eyes when she heard her sister was sick. It was some different from the way they snapped when the Injuns was playin' tag with us.”

“What was her brother-in-law's name?” More than one asked that, fired by the driver's eulogy which had been more than confirmed previously by the drummer.

“I'm derned if I know,” he acknowledged, and saw his stock decline. “She didn't mention it, an' the feller thet drove up, he didn't say. Jes' says to her, 'Is this Lucy?' like folks do out here, not meanin' to be familiar, I reckon. She says 'Yes,' an' soon's he says her sister's sick, out she clumb.”

There was a discussion of various ranches to which she might have gone. It was evident that Lucy Hansen, if that was her name, had aroused interest sufficient to insure her almost a public reception when first she came to town. It was evident, also, that Strong was not the only one who would have made some excuse to drift out to her brother-in-law's ranch beforehand if they could have located it.

In one way he was not too vexed at the driver's lack of memory. He left the little crowd in the lobby and went down the street to a restaurant and in to supper. There a man came over to his table. It was Laguna's postmaster, a somewhat shiftless incumbent who had never been able to grasp the idea that his position did not officially entitle him to inquire into the nature of the mail he handled.

“You're handlin' Gardner's affairs, ain't you, Strong?” he asked.

“I'm looking out for his interests.” That was another matter he had decided to take up with Clayborne, now that the attorney showed permanent sign of redemption. “Why?”

“Letter come for Mrs. Gardner—marked 'Important.' It's got no return address on it. In a ordinary course I'd have to send it back as a dead letter, but it might mean somethin' could be attended to best by you, seein' you're representin' their int'rests, as you put it. I see you go inter the hotel an' I put it in my pocket, figgerin' I'd give it to you. Here 'tis. I reckon if you give me a receipt for it as Gardner's agent it'll be all right. I suppose a dead man kin have an agent.

“I ain't got time to read all the stuff they shoot in to me to go through. I'm runnin' the regulations by common sense. I ain't stuck on the job anyway. There ain't much in it, an' nobody else wants it. I'm just hangin' on till the railroads git here an' then I suppose they'll want to run me out of it an' give it to some dude politician.

“It come by the stage. Not this one—last week. Thought you might come in an' I'd see you but they tell me you've been away. Here's the receipt. Ain't you goin' to open it?” he asked disappointedly, as Strong signed for the letter and put it in his pocket.

“I'll open it with Lawyer Clayborne,” he said. “I reckon mebbe it's the right thing to give me this but I'd ruther open it when he's present. Or not open it at all if he says not.”

“Huh! Tell me he's makin' out to git along without licker. He can't. All peaked up now. A man who's drunk as much as he has, and as long, has got to depend on it. Won't be able to digest 'thout it. An' I reckon a postmaster ought to know as much about the rights of his office as any half-reformed lawyer thet's forgot how to practice. He's ten years behind the law.”

“Jest the same he's the only lawyer we got in town.” Strong grinned at the offended postmaster and mollified him. He had a smile that had more than once served him. Since he had laughed at Hurley in the mud pool he had been able to grin again.

“Lobo Smith's back again,” went on the postmaster. “They come into town last night, closed the doors down to the tent an' raised high hell. I'll bet they sure do stir up devilment when they shut themselves in thet way,” he said enviously. “They say they throw eagles an' double eagles round like it was grain for the chickens. Them cantina gals is the chickens all right,” he added with a wink, “an' Ramon an' Sprague do their share of scratchin'.”

All signs of the grin had faded from Strong's face. Things closed in once more about a grim purpose. If he had come back last night he might have met the man who killed Bramley. He would probably have come in with the rest of the lawless crew, confident in their numbers. But, whether the doors of the Tent had been locked on them or not, Strong knew that he would have got that man if he had been sure he was inside.

He would have broken in and held them all up while he singled him out and then he would have given him a chance at the draw. Lobo himself might have meddled. If he did, so much the better. Lobo's draw was like a lightning flash, his aim deadly, but something in Strong's soul assured him that, when it came to a show-down between them, he would get his man. He might not go unscathed—and even through the tense desire that now mastered him once again, bound him to the one resolve—he knew that he wanted to live. The face of the girl, as she had looked at him outside the Encinada road house, flashed between him and the vision of death he had once contemplated with serenity.

He had been able to analyze the look she gave him after he regarded it through a perspective glass of memory, unfilmed by his own temporary sense of having been rude. It had not been one of anger. It was not wrath at his staring that had made her turn rose color beneath her bonnet. It had been almost as if she had seen in him something of what he had seen in her, a startled, pleased surprise at finding some one who was different from the rest of the world. Strong was not conceited and he had come to this conclusion after due allowances.

Lobo was in Three Corners! Strong finished his meal in silence after the postmaster left to join the lobby group, still listening to the stage driver outdo Hank Monk, and then he went to find Clayborne with his face once more set hard.

His roan was outside the hotel. As Strong walked up the street a Mexican who had just ridden into town and had hitched his pinto next to Strong's mount, followed him,

Clayborne had an office now, a modest back room to a general store. It was not yet dark and he found the lawyer seated by the open window, vigorously chewing tobacco.

“I find it helps to allay certain cravings,” he told Strong as he cut himself a fresh morsel. “How have things been going with you? I hear the stage got attacked by Apaches. Railroads will stop all that sort of thing. Edmonds should have been on that stage but he told me he might take a private rig if certain matters became urgent.” He cocked an eyebrow at Strong and went on. “The will has not been probated yet. It takes time. The machinery of the law has a great many cogs. What can I do for you?”

Strong showed him the letter and retailed the postmaster's decision for giving it to him.

“Ah!” said Clayborne. “You are not a lawful agent; you have no power of attorney. Your looking out for Gardner's interests is based upon the law of kindness, for which we can find no legal authority. I do not think that you have the slightest right to receive this letter.

“That ass of a Taylor should know that, the moment that two-cent stamp is placed upon the envelope and it is committed to the mails, it becomes inviolate under the regulations of the Federal government. And, while the law has not yet come to Laguna in the general sense of that word, the Federal law reaches over all the territory of this United States, as many have found out to their sorrow and more will. The Federal government acknowledges no lawlessness when it chooses to exercise its functions.”

Once more he cocked his eyebrow at Strong as if he reserved some secret in which the latter and the Federal government might be involved. This time Strong noticed it.

“Meanin' thet I have let myself in fo' a term in the penitentiary?” he asked.

“Hardly that, sir. Taylor is the more guilty party. I do not imagine that either of you will be called to account. Circumstances alter cases. Even Justice sometimes slips her blindfold and regards with an orb beaming with humanity those brought before her bar. Have you ever advertised for relatives of Mr. and Mrs. Gardner?”

“I never thought of it,” Strong replied. “I was meanin' to ask you to take the thing over. Thar's quite a few assets in the way of stock, an' thar's the ranch. We cattlemen have keen takin' turns lookin' out fo' the stock but we never got around to action. I reckon they left thet to me, an' now I'm puttin' it up to you.”

“Very good, sir. It shall be attended to. Who's this?” he asked of the young Mexican who knocked and came in without being invited, ignoring the lawyer, his eyes only for Strong.

It was Miguel, the younger son of Maria, a lithe, handsome figure in his vaquero's costume. He spoke fairly good English and, as he illuminated it with illustrative gestures, his speech was more comprehensive, more dramatic than the ordinary. He took off his high-crowned hat and addressed himself directly to Strong, his eyes flashing as he talked, though it did not seem at first as if he had much to impart.

“Maria, she tell me to come to Laguna, señor,” he said, “since she did not know whether first you come here or to the rancho an' you say you return this evening. If you go first to the rancho then Maria, she tell you what we find out. Perhaps eet it not verree much but she want you to know firs' that Lobo is return, an' then there is some other theeng I fin' out—about the ravine.” He flashed a glance toward Clayborne that showed at once his suspicion of any listener, and the question to Strong whether he should go on.

Strong nodded. He said assuringly, “Go ahead.” The blood stirred in him quickly. His intuition, his hunch, was working. The ravine could mean but one thing, the place where he had lost the trail of the raiders. But he knew that he would have to let Miguel tell things his own way or he might get twisted and leave out something important, even forget it, for the time being.

“Last night, señor, Lobo comes to town. They go to the Tent, where they pay much money to Ramon an' he lock the door and keep every one out. They dreenk, they gamble, they dance, they do what they please.” Miguel's expressive face showed sulkiness as he said this. It was clear that for some reason he did not approve of the unlimited license allowed to Lobo and his pack, by Ramon. His dark eyes shot fire and his fists clenched.

“Ramon Jamarillo is a dog! So long as he get the gol' he do not care what happen to those girl he have to work for heem. Señor, there ees one girl there who say she know you, that you are Caballero to her. She like you verree much. Her name is Josefa. One time she tell you not to go outside alone. You remember! The night Señor Gardner was killed, the night you first come to Bar B with Señor Bramley?”

Strong nodded. That seemed a long time ago. He felt more strongly than ever that Maria, working in her own wise ways, had uncovered some of the pattern she had spoken of, and that in that warp his own fate was interwoven.

“Josefa—her othaire name is Montez, señor—she has perhap' not always been what you call good girl, but maybe she cannot help herself. Si? For Ramon Jamarillo is a great rascal. Eet does not matter. I love her an' she love me. Maria she has seen her an' she say all right, after she talk long time weeth Josefa. Eet make me happy. Si? I hope that you weel let her come to the rancho, in time. But firs' she mus' leave that cantina. Ramon, he have her always in his debt. An' Rudd, who ees one of Lobo's band, he ees verree much fond of Josefa.

“She tell my mother that, an' Maria she tell her to make Rudd dreenk plenty to mak' gran' fool of heem, to mak' heem talk.

“Las' night, Rudd get drunk. He dance all the time weeth Josefa, he mak' love to her an' she mak' fool of heem for now she is betroth' to me an' she would keel herself before she would not be true, señor. For I mak' her my wife.

“He beg her to come weeth him to live in Doom Cañon. She say no, she weel not go to such place weeth all those rough men an' he tell her she weel not be alone. Then he laugh an' weel not tell her why except that eet ees one beeg joke. She tease heem an' he tell her part of that joke. He say Lobo ees to send heem thees morning to fool a señorita on the Socorro stage”

“What?” Strong sprang to his feet and Miguel stopped dead at the terrible sound of his voice, the look in his face. “Go on, pronto,” he ordered and his tone was like the grating of steel blades.

“Lobo, he know thees señorita ees to come on the stage because he have a letter that he find an' Rudd ees to stop the stage out of town an' tell the girl he ees come to meet her. Then he weel take her to the cañon an' eef she ees as pretty as her sister, El Lobo weel take her. Eef she is not so pretty then perhaps the men weel throw dice for her.

“But Rudd—he ees verree drunk now, señor, an' he does not see that Josefa look at heem as eef he were a rattlesnake. Eef she had a knife she say she theenk she mus' have keel heem. But the place ees all full of Lobo's men, who would keel her too. But she ees smart. She theenk of me, an' of what Maria ask her to fin' out, so she laugh, she talk an' try find out some more. Also, she mean to see me so I can tell that señorita on the stage to be verree careful she know the man who want to take her.

“But she cannot do that. Ramon he weel not let the girl leave the cantina. They sleep there always an' there is an old woman who lock them in. I theenk this woman, she suspec' something. Perhaps Ramon tell her to be extra careful because he see Rudd talk so much to Josefa. She make Josefa sleep weeth her, an' the ol' woman she sleep like the watchdog, weeth one eye open, so Josefa cannot come to the rancho unteel late thees afternoon. She ees there now, señor. I do not want her to go back. An' the stage has come in. That young señorita”

“They've taken her,” said Strong. “Go on, boy, what more do you know? Quick.”

“Onlee thees: Rudd tell Josefa that she need not be afraid he weel want the señorita eef she does not please El Lobo, that he love onlee Josefa an' weel give her anything eef she weel come to the cañon. An' then he ees so drunk he start to laugh at the joke again an' she get that from heem too. Señor, the señorita on the stage ees the sister of the Señora Gardner who ees come to stay weeth her, who does not know she ees dead.”

“Hell! Clayborne, where's that letter? We've got to open it!” He snatched the letter from the desk and read it swiftly in the fading light.

“She says she is coming on the date that she set in her last letter, not having heard to the contrary, that she does not know whether this letter will reach here ahead of her or not, but for them to please be sure to meet her. Good Heavens, Clayborne, think of it! I saw this girl, at Encinada. They've got her in that wolves' den, but I'll get her out if I have to blast the walls down!”

“You can't do it alone, man,” said Clayborne. “You won't have to. So it was Lobo who took Gardner's wife. He found that first letter from this sister of hers—she probably carried it in her gown, like women do. That don't matter. He got it, the devil. He murdered that woman and shot her husband down and now the brute thinks to have the other. They won't stand for that, even in Laguna. Come on up to the hotel!”

“There's no time to lose in making speeches, Clayborne. I tell you I've met that girl. I love her”

“Confound it, Strong, don't be a fool. All the more reason not to go alone. You couldn't begin to get through that fence they've got there. They'd shoot you down like a dog. We've got to get plenty of men. We'll have to blast our way in, perhaps, but you can't do it by yourself.”

“Señor” began Miguel. Strong swept him aside.

“Come on then,” he cried to Clayborne. “If you ever talked in your life to win, talk to them now. Come on to the hotel, first.”

But they found the lobby almost deserted. Laguna was beginning to start its night's entertainment. The twilight was sifting down fast, and lights were beginning to show all over town.

“Most of them will be at the Tent,” said Clayborne. “There's a fandango on there to-night.”

They found the place crowded, early as it was, with the customers taking their after-dinner drinks. It was a sober enough lot at that moment, tough citizens, many of them, but with a sprinkling of cattlemen and ranchers. The gambling layouts had not started up and the crowd was idling the time away until the fandango should commence—a device of Ramon's to fill his place with spenders.

Miguel entered with them. There was a shout at sight of Clayborne that hushed a little when they saw Strong's bleak face beside that of the attorney. The jibes at what they thought the lawyer's fall from his good resolutions died down. The sense of something unusual leavened through them and they gathered about Clayborne as he strode across the room to a table and mounted to its tap by a chair, Strong beside him, Miguel close by. Sprague was not present. It was early for him. He was not interested in fandangos but the uneasy countenance of Ramon appeared, pressing through.

“What ees thees?” he demanded and subsided as Strong shoved the barrel of a gun into his ribs, bidding him keep still. The crowd was silent, expectant.

“Men of Laguna,” said Clayborne. “On this floor, not so long ago, a man was shot down. The stain of his blood is still there, in the boards. You will say he was killed fairly.

“He fired at the man he believed had abducted his wife.

“The dead body of his wife, bruised beyond belief, was found in Lago Claro not long afterward. There are not many men here who did not attend the funeral. Some went perhaps because of curiosity, yet all because they had a feeling, however dim, of sorrow in their hearts for this woman, cut off in the ripeness of womanhood.

“She had a sister, a young, beautiful and brave girl whose exploits have this day been upon the tongues of all of you. This girl wrote to Mary Gardner that she was coming here to live with her.

“She had made her arrangements, she set the date of her arrival. This letter was close to the person of Mary Gardner. The fiend who abducted her, who violated the sacred rights of wifehood, obtained that letter. He determined to possess the sister.

“This morning he did so, sending a man to stop the Socorro stage, to greet the girl by her first name, to proclaim himself the foreman of the Gardner ranch, to beguile her through her affections by telling her that her sister was ill—knowing that sister lay moldering in her grave, next to the husband who was killed, there in the midst of you. Killed, you say, by fair play, but I say foully and deliberately murdered by the brute who had killed the wife.

“If you have memory of your mothers, of girls you held pure, if you have a drop of manhood in your veins, I call on you to rescue this girl from the fate that met her sister, to take her to-night from the debauched brute whom Satan himself would deny as kin, to wipe out the pack of Lobo, to arm, and storm Doom Cañon. If not, you are guilty of black cowardice. You are lower than the skulking brutes that strip the bones of the dead.”

He had held them, gripped them with the power of his invective, the denouncing eloquence of his voice. He was no longer the town drunkard but a whipper-in of their manhood, what of it was left. Yet at the mention of Lobo most of them held back while some pressed forward, a dozen, not more, ranchers and cattlemen, coming through the press to stand by Strong, beside the sweating Ramon, whose face was a sickly tan.

Others had come in, standing by the door. Among them was Sprague. He came forward.

“What are you raving about?” he demanded without any of his usual suavity. “What are you wasting your time listening to that old soak for? Calls himself a lawyer—maybe he was one before he got disbarred—and brings charges like that with the other man absent. You can bet your last dollar he wouldn't be chirping his head off if Lobo was on hand, and he won't chirp any more when Lobo hears about it. Why, you lush, you've tossed off a thousand drinks Lobo's paid for and now you try to start something like this. Where are your proofs of this guff?”

Clayborne started to speak but, following Sprague's lead, they began to hoot and jeer at him. Only the ranchmen remained silent. Strong's guns came out.

“You give him a chance to finish his talk,” he called above the gibing cries, “or some of you will quit talking right now. And that goes for you, Sprague, first of the lot.”

They saw his silent allies, his guns, slowly, steadily moving in arcs that menaced them all. They saw that the man himself was holding his control by a strenuous effort, that some stress was on him that made him dangerous as a coiled rattler and, little by little, they quieted.

“I've got the proof,” said Clayborne. “I'll give you enough now. And there's plenty more.” For a moment his eyes roved over the crowd. His face lightened as he surveyed the group that had just come in.

“Here's one man I want,” he said. “Here's my main witness, gentlemen—the man that drove the stage in. Now we'll give you your proof.”

He spoke quietly, but in a tone of utter conviction. Not yet had he used any of his usual oratory. He had talked to them straight, knowing the value of time. Now, much of his former dignity had come back to him. His mien had the assurance of a successful counselor, sure of his case. The stage driver stepped forward.

“I just come in,” he said. “I don't know what this is all about.”

“So much the better. An unprejudiced witness. Your name, sir?”

“Seth Larkin.”

“Tell us what the man was like who stopped your stage this morning and told Miss Lucy that he was foreman of the Gardner Ranch.”

“Why, he was a sort of tall chap, well as I could jedge, lookin' down on him like I did from the box. He was a bit bald, had a straw-colored mustache, trimmed kind o' short, and a powder mark on his right cheek up by the eye. What's the idea?”

“He said he was foreman of the Gardner Ranch and that Miss Lucy's sister was sick and her brother-in-law, Mr. Gardner, was staying with her?”

“He sure did. Anything wrong?”

“And every man in this room knows that Gardner and his wife are in their grave together, that there never was a foreman to the outfit. As for this man I, myself do not recognize him. He is probably a newer recruit of Lobo's. But I will venture my own life on the assertion that his name is Rudd and that there are plenty here who know him as a member of Lobo's gang of ruffians, abductors and murderers. You know him, Sprague, lie as you may. You know him, Ramon."

There were more murmurs now, but still reluctance.

Strong's voice rang out once more.

“You keep yore hands whar they are, Sprague, or I'll drill you between the eyes.”

There was no doubt of that threat, of the willingness that backed it. Strong's eyes were flashing like bright steel in the sun. This Rudd, with the powder mark, the stubby, straw-colored mustache, the partly bald head, was not merely the man who had carried off the girl he knew was the only one in all the world for him, but the man who had killed Bramley. Comparatively a new comer, there were doubtless many of Lobo's men he had never seen, who had not been with him the night Gardner was killed, but Rudd was one of the outfit and Lobo was indisputably linked with the raid, with the death of Gardner's wife.

“Lobo is a fiend!” cried Clayborne. “Are you going to let him turn this place into a hell or are you game to send him to the one where he belongs? I'm giving you your chance, men. I'm not begging you," he added and his voice changed to a note of domination, the voice of one who no longer pleaded but ordered.

But none stepped forward to join the little company by the side of Strong save the stage driver.

“Why, you pack of lousy coyotes,” the driver said, “you bums, thet gal's little finger is worth all yore miserable hides an' the muck they hold together. She fit agin' the 'Paches yestiddy. Likely saved my life an' others an' you stand thar like you was made of straw. I had a notion thar was somethin' wrong this mornin', but she seemed to think it was all right, goin' off to her sick sister. I'd have twisted thet Rudd's neck off at the roots if I'd guessed the least part of what he was up to. I'll do it yet. I'm with you, old-timer,” he said to Strong. “If thar's any more here with the guts of wood ticks, they'll jine in.”

“You can't git into the cañon, no way,” demurred a voice.

“Hell! You kin try,” said the driver, and the sarcasm in his voice had the rasp of a file.

“Come on,” cried Strong. “We can't wait, boys. You know what happened to Mrs. Gardner.” His voice was hoarse, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, his fingers twitched on the triggers as if he expected opposition and would welcome it. But it was not forthcoming. Aside from any other consideration, the rest were afraid, sure that they could not force the cañon, sure that those who went would be killed and that Lobo would have bloody vengeance on the rest who might be suspected of sympathy. They would not stop Strong—they feared him—but they would not follow.

“We'll wait just a minute, Strong. It won't delay the result.”

Strong faced Edmonds who had come forward from the door, standing now by the side of Sprague.

“This is my affair—not a railroad matter,” Strong declared. “Let us get out of that door, or”

“I am a United States marshal,” said Edmonds coolly, and there was such an air of efficient authority about him that Strong was momentarily checked, staring at him in surprise. “I'm after Lobo Smith for other matters than these, but he'll stand trial for them. We've been watching him for some time. It was you, Strong, who gave me the clew with that button you picked up on the back trail. It is the kind Chinese use to fasten their blouses with. It was the link we needed.

“Lobo has been smuggling Chinese across the Mexican border at a thousand dollars a head—gold money.

“If you stir, Sprague, I'll put a bullet through you. That goes for you too, Ramon. You've been helping them distribute the chinks after they got them here. You've got some in your cellar now. You are both under arrest. Get them, boys.”

Two of the men who had come with him snapped handcuffs on the two owners of the cantina and marched them behind the bar for temporary keeping.

“So I'm here to get Lobo Smith,” Edmond's went on. “I've got eight men with me. I could swear every one of you in for deputies, if I wanted cowards. As Mr. Clayborne says, you've got a chance to volunteer. If we can't get through to the cañon with what force we can muster, I have authority to use the United States cavalry. I have sent a messenger to the post already. They will be here before midnight.

“You boast, some of you, that the law hasn't come to Laguna. You're wrong. Uncle Sam is on the job right now and, where the Federal law once comes, the civil law will follow.

“Under the circumstances, I am not going to wait for the cavalry. I am going to get into that cañon if I have to blow it apart with dynamite. It interests me a little right now to know how many of you are plain skunks. When I find out, I may be still more interested. The law has come to Laguna.”

He eyed them severely and they shifted uneasily, shuffling on their feet, wondering what he might know of their own especial crimes.

“Strong, here's your chance to help get Lobo.”

“I'm after Rudd first,” said Strong. “After we get Miss Lucy. For Heaven's sake, Edmonds, don't let's talk any mo'. Think of what may be happenin' to her.”

The tide had turned. There were those who slunk off, behind more who pressed forward. Edmonds called for arms, ammunition, for dynamite and lanterns, crisply organizing those who hurried to rally round the supreme authority. The law had come to Laguna. Three Corners was due for a sweeping and the first cleansing was to be in Doom Cañon. Many who were uncertain of their own standing were eager now in the hope of later immunities.

Strong ran into the street to get his horse. He acknowledged the wisdom of using this massed posse, the necessity of it, but he burned for a surety of personal vengeance. Now it had been taken from him, unless he could fight his way through to Rudd—Rudd first—and then Lobo. They would fight and, whatever they might decide themselves, he vowed they should not be taken alive, Federal government or not.

Miguel ran beside him toward the hotel.

“Señor,” he pleaded. “Señor, you would not listen before. I have not told you all. There ees a back way out of the cañon to the ravine.”

“The ravine!” Strong stopped.

Down the street men were pouring out of the cantina, mounting, racing off for rifles, opening up a store for dynamite, for tools and lanterns.

“What's that you say?” asked Strong and his voice cleared with a new hope. “A back way to the gorge?” He had not been deceived after all. The raiders he had tracked had not come out of the water. In some way they had entered through the cliff.

“Si, señor. What eet ees, I do not know. Rudd was verree drunk when he tell Josefa that so all their gold came to them. He did not talk of Chinamen but”

“All right. Git on your hawss. We'll go to the ranch!”

There was dynamite there, used for blasting post holes. He would find the entrance and break through with Hurley—thanks to the steaming mud—with Miguel and his brother and the cook, Juan. Josefa was there at the ranch, afraid to return to the cantina. She might know more than Miguel could tell. They would get through while the rest stormed the cañon gate, rescue Lucy, find Rudd and Lobo, attacking in the rear.

“Ride, like hell!” he called to Miguel. And the two went tearing down the main street through the assembling posse, out past the lake where Mrs. Gardner's body had been found, out to the plain with pounding hoofs, manes and tails streaming in the wind of their own going. It was full night now, stars glittering, a moon slowly rising. The ravine at the back of the mesa ran east and west. The moon would light it; if not, there were lanterns. They would light a roaring fire from driftwood—he could carry some kerosene to start it and for torches.

Somehow, they would get through the cliff.

Strong was sure of that. The wind was cold to his face as the horses raced, belly to ground, and the blood was cool in his veins. At last he would even scores and now he was to fight for the girl, for her dead kin, as well as for Bramley. To win her and to hold her. Only he sent up a brief prayer that he might get there in time.

A dog barked. Perro! There were the lights of the ranch. Strong shouted, fired his revolver in the air and a figure came hurrying to the ranch gate. They thundered through. Off saddle at the porch, they went into the room where the girl Josefa and Maria started up as Strong strode in. Hurley limped in from the next room, his wrinkled face filled with expectant inquiry, his eyes shining.

“Git yore guns an' saddle up, Bill,” cried Strong. “Here's where you git yore chance fo' shootin' straight. I need you. We've got 'em. They've stolen Gardner's sister-in-law. The U.S. marshal is out after the outfit for smugglin' chinks. Cavalry's comin', but we'll git 'em from the back. Kin you ride?”

“Kin a frog hop? I been waitin' fo' you to show up. Hell's bells! boy, I'm with ye, cartridges to coffins. I went out to the mud hole again yestiddy an' I'm limber as a pine sapling.“ He hurried off to the corral, and Strong turned to question Josefa more closely.