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The carriage came abreast of the two men and Tuttle jumped out, with Ellhorn close behind him. But quick as they were, Herrera, the handsome one of the two, understood what was happening and leaped to one side, a long knife flashing from his sleeve, before Tuttle’s hand could descend upon him. The other was slower and Ellhorn had him by the arm before he could thrust his hand into his pocket for his revolver. Herrera’s knife slid into position against his wrist and Tuttle’s revolver clicked. The Mexican looked dauntlessly into its black muzzle, but saw that his companion was submitting, and that both were covered by the guns of the officers.

“It’s all right, Senor Tuttle,” he said coolly. “You ‘ve got the best of me. I give up.”

They drove back to the adobe jail; and while Tuttle was turning his prisoners into the custody of Willoughby Simmons, the deputy sheriff, Ellhorn slipped out, crossed the street, and went into a saloon. The men already there had watched the arrival of the hack and the two prisoners at the jail, and two of them, when they saw Nick coming, hurried into the back room, leaving the door open.

“What’s up, Nick?” the proprietor asked as he poured the whiskey Ellhorn had ordered.

“Tommy and me,” answered Nick jauntily, pushing his glass across the bar to be filled a second time. “We ‘re on top now, and I sure reckon we ‘re goin’ to stay there!”

“After the Dysert gang?”

“You bet! Hot and heavy! We’ll have ’em all bunched in the jail by night!”

Ellhorn stood with his back toward the middle door; and the two men in the rear room cautiously made their way into the front again, revolvers in their hands. Nick turned and found himself facing Faustin Dysert and Hippolito Chavez, a policeman and member of Dysert’s society. His two revolvers flashed out, the triggers clicked, and he stood waiting for the next move of the others, for he saw at once that they did not intend to shoot at that moment.

“You ‘ll have to give me your guns, Nick,” said Dysert. “You ‘re drunk and disorderly, and I ‘m going to arrest you.”

“Want my guns?” shouted Nick derisively. “Then come and take ’em!”

“I ‘m going to take them, and I ‘ll give you two minutes in which to decide whether or not you ‘ll give them up peaceably.”

“You will, will you! Let me tell you, it’s yourself that’s goin’ to be taken, dead or alive, and not for any common ‘drunk and disorderly,’ either! You-all are goin’ to swing, you are! Whoo-oo-ee-ee!”

Across the street, Tuttle had come out of the jail and was looking for his friend. Ellhorn’s peculiar yell came bellowing from the saloon, and he knew that trouble of some sort was brewing. Dysert and Chavez saw him leaping across the street, and rushed into the back room and slammed the door as he entered at the front. With a glance Tuttle took in the group of men with tense, excited faces, gathered at one side of the room, Ellhorn, with a revolver in each hand, at the other, and the saloon-keeper emerging from underneath the bar.

“Nick, you ‘re drinkin’ again! Put up your guns!” Tom exclaimed angrily.

“After ’em, Tommy! They went in there! Whoo-oo-ee-ee!” yelled Nick, rushing toward the middle door. It gave before his weight and he dashed in. Tuttle followed, not knowing what was happening, yet sure that his friend was daring some danger. But the room was empty. Through the back door Dysert and his companion had gained a corral, into which opened several other houses, and in some one of these had disappeared and found concealment.

“Huh!” grunted Nick. “Tom, if you’d only had sense enough to stay away a minute longer I ‘d have got both of ’em myself!”