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“Billy Ellis,” cried Rich.

“That’s me,” replied the newcomer.

“Thought you were down to Tucson?”

“I was.”

“Thought you wasn’t comin’ back for a week yet?”

“Tommy,” proffered Billy Ellis dreamily, “when you go to Tucson next you watch out until you sees a little, squint-eyed Britisher. Take a look at him. Then come away. He says he don’t know nothin’ about poker. Mebbe he don’t, but he’ll outhold a warehouse.”

But here Senor Johnson broke in: “Billy, you’re just in time. Jed has hurt his foot and can’t get on for a week yet. I want you to take charge. I’ve got a lot to do at the ranch.”

“Ain’t got my war-bag,” objected Billy.

“Take my stuff. I’ll send yours on when Parker goes.”

“All right.”

“Well, so long.”

“So long, Senor.” They moved. The erratic Arizona breezes twisted the dust of their going. Senor Johnson watched them dwindle. With them seemed to go the joy in the old life. No longer did the long trail possess for him its ancient fascination. He had become a domestic man.

“And I’m glad of it,” commented Senor Johnson.

The dust eddied aside. Plainly could be seen the swaying wagon, the loose-riding cowboys, the gleaming, naked backs of the herd. Then the veil closed over them again. But down the wind, faintly, in snatches, came the words of Jim Lester’s song:

“Oh, Sam has a gun
That has gone to the bad,
Which makes poor old Sammy
Feel pretty, damn sad,
For that gun it shoots high,
And that gun it shoots low,
And it wabbles about
Like a bucking bronco!”

Senor Johnson turned and struck spurs to his willing pony.

CHAPTER TEN

THE DISCOVERY

Senor Buck Johnson loped quickly back toward the home ranch, his heart glad at this fortunate solution of his annoyance. The home ranch lay in plain sight not ten miles away. As Senor Johnson idly watched it shimmering in the heat, a tiny figure detached itself from the mass and launched itself in his direction.

“Wonder what’s eating HIM!” marvelled Senor Johnson, “–and who is it?”

The figure drew steadily nearer. In half an hour it had approached near enough to be recognised.

“Why, it’s Jed!” cried the Senor, and spurred his horse. “What do you mean, riding out with that foot?” he demanded sternly, when within hailing distance.

“Foot, hell!” gasped Parker, whirling his horse alongside. “Your wife’s run away with Brent Palmer.”

For fully ten seconds not the faintest indication proved that the husband had heard, except that he lifted his bridle-hand, and the well-trained pony stopped.

“What did you say?” he asked finally.

“Your wife’s run away with Brent Palmer,” repeated Jed, almost with impatience.

Again the long pause.

“How do you know?” asked Senor Johnson, then.

“Know, hell! It’s been going on for a month. Sang saw them drive off. They took the buckboard. He heard ’em planning it. He was too scairt to tell till they’d gone. I just found it out. They’ve been gone two hours. Must be going to make the Limited.” Parker fidgeted, impatient to be off. “You’re wasting time,” he snapped at the motionless figure.

Suddenly Johnson’s face flamed. He reached from his saddle to clutch Jed’s shoulder, nearly pulling the foreman from his pony.

“You lie!” he cried. “You’re lying to me! It ain’t SO!”

Parker made no effort to extricate himself from the painful grasp. His cool eyes met the blazing eyes of his chief.

“I wisht I did lie, Buck,” he said sadly. “I wisht it wasn’t so. But it is.”

Johnson’s head snapped back to the front with a groan. The pony snorted as the steel bit his flanks, leaped forward, and with head outstretched, nostrils wide, the wicked white of the bronco flickering in the corner of his eye, struck the bee line for the home ranch. Jed followed as fast as he was able.