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They started forth on another raid, but the members of the Dysert gang seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. Neither in the streets, the plaza, their homes, nor their usual haunts could the officers of the law find one of those for whom they had warrants.

“It’s what I was afraid of,” said Tuttle. “The hint got out too quick for us, and now they ‘re all hiding.”

“They’ve holed up somewhere, all in a bunch, and we ‘ve got to smoke ’em out. Whoo-oo-ee-ee!”

The several whiskies with which Nick had succeeded in eluding his friend’s vigilance were beginning to have manifest effect, and Tuttle decided that, whatever became of the Dysert gang, there was only one thing to do with Nick Ellhorn, and that would have to be done at once. He drove back to the Plaza Hotel, took Nick to his room, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.

“Now, Nick, you-all don’t get out of here till you ‘re plumb sober–sober enough to be sorry!”

Nick protested, but Tuttle threw him down on the bed and then deliberately sat down on his chest. Ellhorn swore valiantly and threatened many and dire revenges. But Tom sat still, in unheeding silence, and after a little Nick shut his mouth with a snap and gazed sullenly at the ceiling. He labored for breath for a while, and at last broke the silence by asking impatiently: “Say, Tom, how long you goin’ to make an easy chair of me?”

“You know, without askin’!”

Nick relapsed into silence again until his face grew purple and his breath came in gasps. “Tom,” he began, and there was no backbone left in his voice, “what do you-all want me to promise?”

“Not to drink another drop of whiskey, beer, wine, brandy, or anything intoxicatin’, till we get the Dysert gang corralled–or they get us.”

“All right, Tommy. I promise.”

Tattle got up and looked at his friend with an expression of mingled apology and triumph on his big, red face. “I ‘m sorry I had to do it. Nick. You-all know that. But I had to, and you know that, too. We can’t do another thing now till to-morrow, and you ‘re sober again. I don’t see,” he went on grumblingly, “as long as they were goin’ to kill old man Paxton anyway, why they did n’t do it before Emerson got married!”

Nick had been soaking his head in the wash-bowl and he wheeled around with the water streaming over his face. “Tom, I sure reckon Emerson would come if you ‘d send for him!”

“Mebbe he would, Nick, but I ain’t goin’ to do it. For he sure had n’t ought to go and get himself killed now, just on our account. But if he was here,” Tommy went on wistfully, “we ‘d wipe up the ground with that Dysert gang too quick!”

Nick rolled over on the bed, sleep heavy on his eyelids. “Well, I gave Emerson the chance this mornin’ to let us know whether he ‘s goin’ to keep on bein’ one of us, or whether he ‘s goin’ to bunch alone with Mrs. Emerson after this!”

Tuttle gazed in open-mouthed and wide-eyed astonishment. “What–what–do you mean, Nick? You did n’t wire him to come?”

“No, I did n’t! I told him you and me was up against the Dysert gang–” Nick’s voice trailed off into a sleepy murmur–“alone, and I–was drunk–and likely to get–disorderly.”

“You measly, ornery–” Tuttle began. But he saw that Ellhorn was already asleep and he would not abuse his friend unless Nick could hear what he said. So he shut his mouth and considered the situation. He knew well enough that in the days before Emerson’s marriage any such message would have brought Mead to their aid as fast as steam could carry him. But now, if he did not come–well, what Nick had said was true, and they would know that the end of the old close friendship had come. But, for the young wife’s sake, if he should come, he and Nick must not let him do anything foolhardy and they must try to keep him out of danger.