s a man out here wanting to speak to you,
Mr. Fitzpatrick," he announced; and the contractor went out, returning
presently to break into Ballard's preoccupied effort to raise the office
at Elbow Canyon.

"One of the foremen came in to say that the Craigmiles men were coming
back. For the last half-hour horsemen by twos and threes have been
trailing up the river road and heading for the ranch headquarters," was
the information he brought.

"It's Carson's gang," said Ballard, at once.

"Yes; but I didn't give it away to the foreman. Their scheme is to make
as much of a round-up as they can while it's light enough to see.
There'll be a small piece of a moon, and that'll do for the drive down
the canyon. Oh, I'll bet you they've got it all figured out to a dot.
Carson's plenty smooth when it comes to plannin' any devilment."

Ballard turned back to the telegraph key and rattled it impatiently.
Time was growing precious; was already temerariously short for carrying
out the programme he had hastily determined upon in the few minutes of
brown study.

"That you, Loudon?" he clicked, when, after interminable tappings, the
breaking answer came; and upon the heels of the snipped-out affirmative
he cut in masterfully.

"Ask no questions, but do as I say, quick. You said colonel had
machine-gun at his mine: Rally gang stone-buckies, rush that gun, and
capture it. Can you do it?"

"Yes," was the prompt reply, "if you don't mind good big bill funeral
expenses, followed by labour riot."

"We've got to have gun."

"The colonel would lend it if--hold wire minute, Miss Elsa just crossing
bridge in runabout. I'll ask her."

Ballard's sigh of relief was almost a groan, and he waited with good
hope. Elsa would know why he wanted the Maxim, and if the thing could be
done without an express order from her father to the Mexican mine
guards, she would do it. After what seemed to the engineer like the
longest fifteen minutes he had ever endured, the tapping began again.

"Gun here," from Bromley. "What shall I do with it?"

The answer went back shot-like: "Load on engine and get it down to end
of branch nearest this camp quick."

"Want me to come with it?"

"No; stay where you are, and you may be next Arcadian chief
construction. Hurry gun."

Fitzpatrick was his own telegrapher, and as he read what passed through
key and sounder his smile was like that which goes with the
prize-fighter's preliminary hand-shaking.

"Carson'll