He had evidently ridden right over the long flank of the hogback, past the mine workings, into the canon. Fifty yards up the canon, fifty yards above the two shacks, lay a horse that was weary unto death, a horse that had been ridden hard and furiously, without mercy.

Not far from the horse was something white. This was a piece of new, white paper that had been fastened to Mrs. Crump's original location notice.

Down below the shacks, between them and the automobiles, was another sc.r.a.p of white; another piece of white paper fastened over another location notice. Standing only a few yards from the shack, and hurriedly talking to Mackintavers, stood the rider who had just arrived. The man was Abel Dorales. He had just put up those two notices, and he paid no attention whatever to the threatening approach of Gilbert.

"Dorales!" gasped Mrs. Crump, and whirled. "Lewis! Here! Gi'me that gun!"

"Stop!" Coravel Tio grasped her arm. "Stop, senora! Force does nothing.

Leave things in my hands, _si servase!_ Lewis, go and tell Gilbert to be quiet-_p.r.o.nto!_"

The potently gentle voice of Coravel Tio held firm command. He was obeyed. Gilbert stood motionless, scowling; Mrs. Crump stayed her hand.

Mackintavers walked quickly toward Mrs. Crump and Coravel Tio; eagerness shone in his eyes, and exultation. Behind him strode Abel Dorales, fixedly regarding Mrs. Crump. The half-breed's features were thinly cruel; his nostrils quivered slightly; a shadowy smile curved his lips into sneering lines.

Gilbert turned and walked toward the new notice posted by Dorales.

"Just got some news," said Mackintavers, jerkily. "Abel is goin' to stay and tell ye bout it. I don't s'pose ye got any objection if I light out for Magdalena, aiblins, now?"

Coravel Tio was rolling a cigarette, quite unconcernedly. He flashed Sandy a smile.

"Object? Why should we object, senor? By all means, go! And take your friend with you, your friend whose name is Zacariah and not Zebulon.

_Vaya con Dios, senor!_"

Mackintavers was plainly in haste to be off. He called to the chauffeur, who came from the shack and joined him. Together the two walked rapidly toward the car wherein was reposing the bogus James Z. Premble.

"Y'ain't goin' to let them varmints go?" Mrs. Crump surveyed Coravel Tio with pleading indignation. "After them tryin'--"

Gracefully, Coravel Tio waved his cigarette. "Si, _senora_! Let them go.

Let them both go. There are larger things, much larger things, awaiting us."

"But that feller Premble!"

"Let them both go, senora. We have larger things ahead."

Mrs. Crump sniffed in uncomprehending disgust; but she gave tacit a.s.sent.

The engine of the car began to whir; the whir became a roaring hum, then a deep vibrant thrumming that lifted through the canon. The car, with its three men, moved away and leaped into speed.

"Hey!" The voice of Gilbert, who had been reading the new location notice, drifted up to them. "Hey! This guy is jumpin' our claim! He's posted notices in the name o' Mackintavers. What the h.e.l.l!"

"Come up here, Gilbert," said Coravel Tio, "and keep quiet. We are to hear some news. Ah, Senor Dorales, have you lunched? We are glad to welcome you."

Dorales did not reply. He did not move, but upon his lips lingered that thin, shadowy smile that was like the stamp of a cruel jeer. Gilbert heavily came up and rejoined the others.

They stood there at the doorway of the shack-Mrs. Crump, Coravel Tio, Gilbert, and Lewis. Facing them stood Abel Dorales; he seemed to be waiting until the automobile should have gotten away beyond pursuit.

Already it was a dot, lessening amid a trail of dust. In the bearing of Abel Dorales was a commanding air, a deep significance, a sneering sense of power. He was in no hurry to explain.

The sun beat down in vertical, sickening waves; the heat was suffocating, insufferable. It filled the canon like an oven. To the left lay the spent horse, panting, loose-tongued, exhausted, unable even to reach the trickle of water below. No other thing moved within sight.

Behind and above rose the long hogback that formed the north wall of the canon. It shut out from view all that lay beyond, all that lay over toward the mountains and the larger canon that drew out from the mountains to the north.

The ground seemed to radiate heat in shimmering waves. To one side lay the dry and withered body of the rattler Mrs. Crump had killed-what was left by the preying tiny things of the earth. Somewhere among the rocks lay that reptilian head, what was left of it. Inconspicuous it was, unseen, dead jaws agape and long fangs glimmering like needles in the hot, sickening sunlight.

"Yes," said Abel Dorales at last. "Yes. I have some news for you."

He ignored that offer of luncheon. He ignored the lowering, menacing looks of Lewis and Gilbert. He ignored the suave Coravel Tio. He fixedly regarded Mrs. Crump, hatred flaming in his dark eyes and quivering at his nostrils. He had hated her from the depths of his soul ever since that day he had jumped her claim over in the Mogollons, that day when she had shot him down like a dog.

There was nothing melodramatic in his bearing. He was grimed with dust and dirt. He was perspiring profusely; his lined and evil face was streaming with sweat against its sleek bronze. He had ridden hard, and he was tired.

Suddenly he shifted his gaze and looked around, to right and left, at the shimmering and empty canon. He looked at the farther hill on the other side. He looked up at the long hogback which closed in those five persons, shutting out all the rest of the world like a vast door of rock. He looked up toward the mountain peaks that showed above the head of the canon. Some inward sense seemed to whisper to him a warning against eavesdroppers; but all the visible world was glowing with insufferable heat, and was deserted. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

"What for ye postin' notices on my lands?" demanded Mrs. Crump. "Huh?

How come ye sent Mackintavers off to file the claims at the recordin'

office, huh? What ye expect to gain by all that fool play, huh? Speak up, ye mangy dog!"

Abel Dorales looked at her, and smiled thinly. "One moment," he said.

Turning, Abel Dorales strode up the canon to where lay his exhausted horse. The poor brute made a painful struggle as if to rise; forefeet, neck, and shoulders heaved convulsively, then collapsed again. Abel Dorales kicked the horse with contempt. From the saddle he took a battered little yellow suitcase which had been tied there and he started back.

At a word from Coravel Tio, the others moved into the slender shadow cast by the north side of the shack, the side that faced uphill to the hogback. There Abel Dorales rejoined them. There he set the battered little suitcase on the ground.

"I should have given this to Sandy," he said, "but I forgot it. Now, Mrs. Crump, your friend Shea stole this from the ranch of Mackintavers.

Here is what he stole."

With a swift movement he opened the suitcase and dumped out the seven stone G.o.ds. They strewed the ground in grotesque att.i.tudes. One fell upright, grinning stonily as if delighted by the feat. Dorales tossed the little suitcase away.

"Ah, yes!" It was Coravel Tio who spoke, unexpectedly. He spoke as though in recognition. "The G.o.ds of the San Marcos! But you are wrong, senor. Our friend Shea did not steal these things. They were stolen by a Navaho, a buck who was hired to steal them because he knew the ranch house of Mackintavers very well. He was hired by Thomas Twofork, who comes from the Cochiti pueblo. These G.o.ds were the G.o.ds of the San Marcos, you understand, and they were the G.o.ds of Thomas Twofork's fathers. That Navaho buck was killed in an accident. How Senor Shea obtained these G.o.ds, I do not know."

Dorales laughed.

"It doesn't matter particularly now. Anyway, we'll concede that Shea didn't steal them, eh? All right. Sandy wanted these G.o.ds back, so I fetched them along. In my hurry to get this property located, I forgot to give them--"

"Where's Thady Shea?" cried out Mrs. Crump, suddenly. "Where is he?"

Abel Dorales looked at her, his lips curving in cruel enjoyment.

"Dead. This location was in his name. I believe that he is without heirs; since he is dead, I believe that his location reverts to the government. Whoever is first to file upon it, gets it. You see? The notices have been posted. Sandy has gone to file the location-now do you understand?"

"Liar!" Mrs. Crump flung the word at him in blind, gasping incredulity.

"He ain't dead! Thady Shea ain't dead!"

"Oh, you need not blame me!" said Dorales, and laughed again. "I followed him, yes; but I came too late. I found him in a canon over on the divide-Beaver Canon."

"There was a Mexican refugee camped there with his family; a sheep-herder. Shea had come and had drunk mescal. He had become drunk, beastly drunk. I am not certain of what took place, because unfortunately I arrived too late-but the woman was dead, and Shea had fallen over the edge of a gully, breaking his neck. He had been shot, also. I think the woman must have shot him-first."

Under the lash of these slow words, delivered with a frightful appearance of truth, Mrs. Crump had gone quite livid. A hoa.r.s.e, inarticulate growl came from her throat. The mortal pallor of a fury beyond all control came upon her; she trembled with sheer pa.s.sion.

Then she started forward-but the hand of Coravel Tio gripped into her wrist.