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“The thing for us to do, Tommy,” advised Ellhorn, “is to take in all the gang we can get hold of. We ‘ll herd ’em all into jail first, and get the evidence afterwards. There ‘ll be some show to get it then, and there ain’t now. We ‘ll load up with warrants, and arrest every kiote that’s thought to be a member of the gang; and we ‘ll start in with Faustin Dysert himself!”

Tuttle looked perplexed. He had in his veins a strain of German blood, which showed in his frank, sincere, blonde countenance and in his direct and unimaginative habit of mind. But Ellhorn supplemented his solidity and straightforwardness with an audacity of initiative and a disregard of consequences that told of Celtic ancestry as plainly as did the suggestion of a brogue that in moments of excitement touched his soft Southern speech.

“Marshal Black would be dead agin goin’ at it that way,” said Tuttle doubtfully.

“Of course he would! But he ain’t here, and we ‘ll run this round-up to suit ourselves; and if we don’t bunch more bad steers than was ever got together in this town before, I ‘ll pull my freight for hell without takin’ another drink!”

“Mebbe you ‘re right,” said Tuttle slowly, “and I think likely that would be Emerson’s judgment too. If he hadn’t got married we ‘d be all right. Us three could go up agin the whole lot of ’em and win out in three shakes!”

“Then let’s send for him, and see if he ‘ll come!”

But Tuttle shook his head. “No,” he said positively, “that would n’t be a square deal for Mrs. Emerson, and we won’t do it. We ‘ll stack up alone against this business, Nick. We ‘ll put on all the guns we ‘ve got and keep together. We might get Willoughby Simmons–he ‘s deputy sheriff now; but he ‘s got no judgment, and he ‘s likely to get rattled and shoot wild if things get excitin’. We ‘ll get the warrants and start out right away, for we ‘ve got to keep the thing quiet and nab ’em before they find out we ‘re on the warpath. You-all remember you ‘re sure goin’ to keep sober!”

“Well,” said Nick with a laugh, “I ‘ll be sober enough to stack up with any measly kiote that’s pirootin’ around this town!”

Tuttle went for the warrants, and Ellhorn said he would get some breakfast. But first he waited until his friend was out of sight and then paid a visit to the bar-room. Next he went to the telegraph office. The message that he sent was addressed to Emerson Mead, Las Plumas, New Mexico, and it read:

“Tommy and me are up against the Dysert gang alone, and I ‘m drunk. Nick.”

He came out of the telegraph office smiling joyously and humming under his breath the air of “Bonnie Dundee.” “I did n’t ask him to come,” he said to himself, “and if he wants to now, that’s his affair. Well, I reckon he ain’t any more likely to have daylight let through him now than he was before he got married; and nobody’s gun has made holes in him yet!”

It was early afternoon when the two friends started out on their round-up of bad men. To attract as little notice as possible they took a closed hack and drove rapidly toward the Mexican quarter. Nick’s manner showed such recklessness and high spirits that Tuttle regarded him with anxiety and began to wonder if it would not be wiser to carry out his threat of the morning before attempting anything else. But he caught sight of two Mexicans coming toward them, one handsome and well built and the other slouching and ill-favored.

“There come two of ’em now! Liberate Herrera and Pablo Gonzalez!” he exclaimed, with sudden concentration of interest and attention. “Liberate is a boss knife-thrower, and I think likely he ‘s the one that did the business for old man Paxton. Look out for ‘im, Nick!”