The tenderfoot looked at Bill with deep and reverent awe, but he said nothing. The stage bumped over the uneven road, lurching drunkenly around curves. A masked man waited silently behind the boulders at the south end of the gap. He appeared nervous, turning often to glance back into the chaparral from which he had emerged a few moments before. “I wonder where in hell Gregorio is,” he muttered, half aloud, “he told me last night that he would be here before me.”

  The stage drew nearer. Bill Gatlin reined his team to a walk at the first deep chuck-hole at the entrance to the gap. The horses moved slowly, picking their way and sometimes stumbling in the deep dust-filled cavities that made this short stretch of scarce fifty yards the most notorious piece of road within a hundred miles.

  The lone highwayman could wait no longer for his accomplice—he must essay the thing alone. He stepped forward to intercept the slow-moving stage and as he did so a noise behind him attracted his attention, and a single backward glance revealed to him a masked man and the familiar habiliments of Gregorio. He breathed a quick sigh of relief, motioned to his accomplice to hurry, and moved forward with the second man now close at his heels.

  Bill Gatlin and the messenger were not surprised when the two men stepped into the middle of the gap and held them up. They would have been surprised under ordinary circumstances, but today they had been forewarned that there would doubtless be an attempted holdup on account of the unusually valuable gold shipment, which was being used as a lure to trap The Black Coyote, and they had been warned to offer no resistance since Hal Colby had agreed to take the notorious robber if the matter was left entirely in his hands without any interference whatsoever. All of which pleased Bill Gatlin and the messenger immensely, since it relieved them both of most of the danger and all the responsibility. Not only did Bill Gatlin show no surprise at the appearance of the two masked figures, but, as a matter of fact, he was already stopping his team as they appeared, and had his hands in the air almost as soon as the command left the lips of the foremost of them. As usual the Mexican kept the driver and messenger covered while The Black Coyote approached the stage to obtain the gold, but this time the second robber followed his principal more closely than had formerly been his custom. The Coyote menaced the passengers with his weapons, seeing that they kept their hands elevated, and then with Gregorio on the watch behind him he slipped both his guns back into their holsters and reached up to take the bags of gold away from the messenger.

  He had placed one foot on the hub of the front wheel to raise himself to a height that would enable him to reach the precious pouches when his confederate stepped quickly toward him, shoved the muzzles of his guns into The Black Coyote’s back, and ordered him to put up his hands.

  “Step down and put ‘em up,” he said. “You’re through.”

  “Durn my hide!” exclaimed Bill Gatlin. “Hays pretty cute. I thought he was Gregorio all the time. He’s got Bull to rights this time.”

  The Black Coyote stepped back from the stage with a growl. “You dirty greaser, you,” he cried. “I’ll get you for this, Gregorio.”

  The latter nodded to the messenger. “Get down and get his guns,” he said, and when the man had done so, “Now yank off his mask.”

  The messenger jerked the black silk handkerchief from the face of The Black Coyote with a single quick movement, and then stepped back suddenly, his eyes wide with surprise. “Colby!” he ejaculated.

  Bill Gatlin almost swallowed his quid of tobacco. “Well I’ll be hornswaggled!” he exclaimed, and then to the second robber, “an’ you was Gregorio all the time an’ I mistook you fer Colby. The joke sure is on me, an’ the drinks too.”

  “They are,” agreed the second robber. He shoved one of his guns into his holster and removed his own mask.

  “Well now I will be hornswaggled,” murmured Bill Gatlin—“ef it ain’t Bull!”

  “Keep him covered,” said Bull to the messenger, “:while I get our horses.”

  Colby glared sullenly at Bull as the latter walked back up the road to get the horses, but he said nothing. He was still half-dazed from the surprise of seeing Bull disguised as Gregorio, for even to the latter’s guns Bull wore the entire outfit of the Mexican, and when Bull returned, riding Gregorio’s and leading Colby’s animal, The Black Coyote eyed him as though he still doubted his identity.

  Bull drew rein beside him and nodded toward Colby’s horse. “Climb aboard,” he said. Colby mounted and Bull tossed the noose of his reata around his prisoner’s neck, drawing up the slack until the honda touched the collar of the man’s shirt.

  “Pull yer freight, Colby,” said Bull, and the two started off down the road toward Hendersville. A moment later the stage passed them.

  “Want me to stay along with you in case you need any help?” called Bill Gatlin.

  “I won’t want no help,” said Bull.

  As the stage grew away from them, concealing itself in its own dust, a swarthy rider galloped up to Bull and Colby, reining in a blazed-face chestnut beside them. It was Gregorio. Colby glared at the Mexican.

  “You—you—” he shouted.

  “Shut up, Colby,” Bull interrupted him. “You got what was comin’ to you. It’ll learn you not to ditch a pal.”

  Gregorio had dismounted and was stripping his outer garments and Bull followed his example. As they exchanged clothing and horses they joked together over the days work, which they considered good. Gregorio swung himself into his saddle first.

  “A Dios, Senor Bull!” he cried with a wave of his hand. “Perhaps in a few days Gregorio comes out of the hills, eh?”

  “I’ll fix that up when I git through with this business, Gregorio,” replied the American. “In the meantime just lay low.”

  “And I will work with you for the Bar Y Rancho?” inquired the Mexican.

  “If I do, Gregorio. So-long!”

  “A Dios, Senor!” and Gregorio wheeled his pony back toward the hills.

  “Thet greaser’s whiter’n some white men,” said Bull.

  When he trotted into Hendersville a few minutes behind the stage he found that already the news had spread and a crowd, gathered about the stage in front of The Donovan House, surrounded him and his prisoner.

  “Durn his hide!” exclaimed one who had been fore most among the posse that had ridden forth to hang Bull only a short time before, “I knew right along ‘twarn’t Bull. I anus said they was something shady about thet there Colby feller.”

  Bull had but just drawn rein when. Texas Pete and Shorty rode up, safely delivered in town by their escort and having reclaimed their guns which had been emptied of cartridges and dropped in the road at the edge, of town while the escort galloped quickly out of range toward the Bar I’.

  Texas Pete had no time for questions. His quick eyes took in the scene at a glance and possibly he guessed the explanation, or caught it from the comments of the crowd, but another and more important matter occupied his thoughts as he forced his pony to Bull’s side.

  “Have you saw anything of Miss Di?” he asked. “Is she here in town?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “She ain’t on the Bar Y Corson says she’s sold out an’ left fer Aldea,” replied Texas Pete.

  “Corson’s a liar,” snapped Bull. He turned toward the veranda Of The Donovan House where he espied the proprietress. “Mrs. Donovan!” he called to her, “is Miss Henders in town?”

  “She is not, Bull,” replied Mary Donovan.

  Bull turned his eyes toward the crowd until they alighted upon a man he knew bore a decent reputation—one who was not affiliated with Gum Smith or his gang.

  “Thompson,” he called, “you take Colby an’ keep him ‘til I git back. Don’t let Gum Smith git his hands on him, an’ shoot Colby if he makes any funny plays. Git down offen your horse, Colby. Take him, Thompson. Come on boys!” and with Texas Pete and Shorty at his pony’s heels he started on a run for the Bar Y As they raced along, now neck and neck, Texas Pete jerked his head back in the general direction of Hendersville. “What was it all about?” he inquired.

  “I jest runded up The Black Coyote,” replied Bull.

  “Colby?”

  Bull nodded. “I ben suspicionin’ him,” he said, “fer a long time back, but I couldn’t never call the turn on him. Then I runs onto Gregorio while I’m hidin’ out up Coyote Canyon. Him an’ Colby ben workin’ together all along, but it seems lately the greaser’s found out Colbys plannin’ on doublecrossin’ him an’ goin’ south with all the swag. This was to be his last job, an’ Colby fixed it some way to have a big shipment of gold today, so Gregorio an’ me fixes it an’ swaps clothes an’ horses an’ I takes the greaser’s place. Colby never got onto it at all. He thinks I was the greaser plumb up to the minute I yanks off the mask.”

  “I thought Gregorio didn’t have no use fer you, Bull,” said Shorty.

  “I done him a good turn a spell back.” That was all he said about the fight with the Apaches in Cottonwood Canyon, where he had risked his life to save the Mexican’s.

  They rode on in silence for a while. The ranch buildings, nestling among the trees, were visible in the distance when Texas Pete called attention to a speck among the sagebrush far to the southeast. To an untrained eye it was scarcely appreciable.

  “There’s a saddled cayuse,” he said. “What fer is it doin’ out yender?”

  Bull strained his eyes in the direction of the animal. “Looks like the L-O sorrel Idaho used to ride,” he said.

  “Idaho was left home with Miss Di,” said Pete.

  As one man the three reined toward the distant pony and with loosened reins tore over the powdery earth, bounding in and out and over the brush like so many nimble-footed jack-rabbits. Blazes, outdistancing the other ponies, reached the L-O sorrel first. Bull threw himself from his saddle and kneeled beside the prostrate form of a man, half hidden in the brush. It was Idaho. As Bull lifted his head he opened his eyes. He looked at Bull in a bewildered way for a moment, the expression of his face denoting a concentrated effort to recall his mental faculties. Then Texas Pete and Shorty reined in beside him in a cloud of dust and profanity.

  “Where’s the boss?” demanded Pete.

  “What you loafin’ out here fer?” inquired Shorty.

  Slowly Idaho sat up, assisted by Bull. He looked at the reins looped about his wrist. He felt of his side and brought his hand away covered with blood.

  “I done the best I could,” he said, “but they was too many of them.”

  “Where’s the boss, you ornery side-winder?” yelled Texas Pete. “Who’s ‘them’? What hev they done with her?”

  “They was all masked,” said Idaho. “I didn’t know no more after they creased me. I dunno what they done with her. Help me aboard thet cayuse, you bow-legged flannel mouth, an’ we’ll pull our freight an’ find her, ‘stid o’ sittin’ round here listenin’ to your yap.”

  Pete, who had dismounted, helped Idaho, almost tenderly, into the saddle.

  “You better beat it fer town,” he said. “You ain’t much good nohow an’ with a .45 between your ribs you ain’t no good whatsumever.”

  “Shut up!” Idaho admonished him. “If I was perforated like a salt cellar I’d be wuth two o’ you.” He reeled a little in the saddle, but shook himself and straightened up. It was evident that he was weak from shock and loss of blood, and that he was suffering pain beside.

  “You’d better go back, Idaho,” said Bull. “You ain’t in no shape to ride at all an’ I reckon we got some hard ridin’ ahead o’ us.”

  “Go back, you damn fool,” said Texas Pete, who, under the cloak of rough and almost brutal badinage, had sought to hide his real concern for his friend’s welfare.

  “Go chase yerselves,” replied Idaho. “I’m goin’ with you.”

  They wasted no more time in argument, but started a wide circle, looking for the tracks of the abductors. They found sufficient evidence to convince them that there had been upward of a dozen horsemen concerned in the work, which corroborated Idaho’s statement, and that approximately half of these had ridden directly in the direction of the Bar Y, while the others had taken a southerly route. It was the latter trail they elected to follow after Bull discovered upon it the imprint of an iron shoe, and as Captain, being tender in front, had recently had his forefeet shod it was safe to assume that they had taken Diana Renders this way.

  They rode fast, for dusk was already on them, and when, a short time later, it became too dark to distinguish the trail from the saddle they were often compelled to stop and dismount, and, upon several occasions, strike matches to make sure that they were still on the right track. Their progress was, therefore, necessarily slow. Toward midnight they lost the trail completely. It was there they left Idaho, too weak from loss of blood to continue.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THROUGH THE NIGHT

  In a back room of The Chicago Saloon Thompson sat guard over Hal Colby, who was neatly and securely trussed and tied to a chair, in which he sat. In The Donovan House the guests were seated at dinner when Gum Smith entered and took his accustomed place. He had just come from the Bar Y and as the streets of Hendersville had happened to be deserted at the meal hour he had met no one.

  “’Lo, Gum,” greeted Bill Gatlin. “I reckon you hearn we got The Black Coyote.”

  “Ah hain’t see no one sence Ah reached town,” replied Smith, “but Ah knowed Colby’d git the critter,” yet withall he looked a bit mystified and uneasy. “Whar be he?” he asked.

  “He’s safe in The Chicago,” said Wildcat Bob.

  “Ah reckon Ah’d better git him over to the jail,” said Gum Smith.

  “I reckon you’ll leave him at The Chicago,” replied Wildcat. “Do you know who he is?”

  “Bull, o’ course.”

  “Bull, hell—it’s Colby.”

  Gum Smith paled, just a trifle. “They must be some mistake,” he said, weakly. “Who got him?”

  “Bull got him an’ they ain’t no mistake,” said Bill Gatlin. “I knew all along ‘twarn’t Bull.”

  “Well,” said Gum Smith, “The Chicago Saloon ain’t no place fer a dangerous prisoner. Soon’s Ah’ve et my victuals Ah’ll take him over to the jail whar he’ll be safe.”

  “I tells you you’ll leave him at The Chicago,” said Wildcat Bob.

  “Ah’m sheriff o’ this yere county,” bawled Gum Smith, “an’ nobody don’t want to interfere with me in the discharge o’ mah duties. Do yo-all hear me, Wildcat Bob?”

  “I hears you, but jest like a jackass brayin’ it don’t make no impression on my onderstandin’,” replied Wildcat, embellishing his remarks with lurid and descriptive profanity. He finished his meal first and went out. When Gum Smith left The Donovan House he repaired at once to his own saloon. Here he deputized a half a dozen loafers, gave each of them several drinks, and led them to The Chicago Saloon, where he demanded of the proprietor that he turn over to him, forthwith, the person of Hal Colby, otherwise known as The Black Coyote.

  “He’s in the back room yonder,” replied the owner of The Chicago Saloon. “Ef you craves him, go git him. I don’t want him.”

  In front of the door to the back room sat Wildcat Bob. His elbows were resting can his knees and from each hand dangled a .45.

  “In the name o’ the lawr,” piped Gum Smith in his high voice, “Ah demands the pusson o’ one Hal Colby.”

  “Git the hell outen here, you blankety, blank, blank, blank!” screamed Wildcat Bob.

  “Yo-all better listen to reason, Wildcat Bob,” yelled the sheriff, “or Ah’ll have the lawr on yo.”

  Wildcat Bob, raising his voice yet higher again than that of his ancient enemy bawled out an incoherent volley of blasphemous and obscene invective. Gum Smith turned and whispered to one of his followers, who withdrew from the room with two others. Presently Gum Smith stepped to one side of the room and, pointing at the little old man sitting before the locked door, called to his remaining deputies: “Take him, men—do yore duty!”

  One of the men stepped forward. Wildcat Bob whirled a gun about his forefinger and without taking aim shot the fellow’s hat from his head. The three stepped back. Almost simultaneously there came the sound of the crashing of glass from the interior of the room where Colby was confined, the voice of Thompson raised in protest, and then shots. Wildcat Bob leaped to his feet and reached for the knob of the door. As he did so his back was toward the barroom for an instant and in that instant Gum Smith raised his six-shooter and fired. Without a word Wildcat Bob crumpled to the floor and lay there motionless.

  Smith and his men leaped for the door. It was locked, and being a strong door, withstood their combined efforts for several minutes. When at last it gave before their assault and they stepped across the threshold they saw only the body of Thompson sprawled upon the floor in a pool of blood. The Black Coyote was gone.

  Surrounded by masked men, her escort shot from his horse, Diana Henders realized only too well the gravity of her situation and though she recognized no individual among those who had lain in ambush for her she guessed well enough that they had acted under orders from Corson. Her note to him, revealing the fact that she knew the entire truth concerning his duplicity and was in possession of the papers that proved it beyond peradventure of a doubt, had, she guessed, prompted the desperate adventure in which he pitted all against all. So suddenly had the masked riders come upon them from the bed of a dry wash that they had had them covered before they could draw, yet Idaho, true to the unwritten code of his calling and his time, had invited death by drawing in the face of their levelled guns in defense of a woman. Had he been alone, or with another man, his hands had gone up the moment he had realized that the odds were all against him, and one of them had gone up, but it had carried a six-gun with it, and he had been shot out of the saddle for his chivalry, and left for dead upon the parched ground as his assailants galloped off toward the south with Diana.