he
tall girl's eyes.

"I want awfully to speak to your father about something; do you suppose
you could get him into the dining-room without anyone's knowing? I want to
consult him in his official capacity," she added with dignity.

"Oh!" said Mabel, surveying her guest calmly. "Do you mean as the sheriff
or as the boss of this hotel? Because if it's that, you can see me. I'm
the real boss."

"Oh, as the sheriff, of course," replied Polly, hastily. "Anybody could
see that you ran this hotel. It's much too well handled to be a man's
job."

"Well," the tall girl unbent a trifle, "I don't mind telling you that I
think so myself. Of course, as a sheriff Papa is all right. You wait here
and I'll fetch him and look after the office till you're through with
him."

In a moment or two Sam Penhallow entered the dining-room, his good-natured
face a trifle puzzled.

"Mabel said----" he began.

Polly smiled. "Yes, isn't she clever at managing things? You see, Mr.
Penhallow, it's a case of 'Kind Captain, I've important information.'
Won't you sit down?"

Sam sat down.

"In the first place, one of those Mexicans who had dinner here to-night is
Juan Pachuca--the man who held up our mine a few days ago."

"What? Why didn't you say so before? I'd have----"

"I didn't think quick enough," admitted Polly, "and for another thing I
knew that if Mr. Scott saw him there would be trouble. He has reasons for
disliking Pachuca--apart from the raid, at least, he thinks he has." Polly
blushed in spite of herself.

"I get you," responded Penhallow, instantly.

"I thought you would. You seem to me like that sort of a man. Now, I want
to ask you something; did you ever hear of a Mexican named 'Gasca' who
lived around here?"

Penhallow, a little mystified, seemed to be thinking.

"A Mexican who had an Indian wife and who was murdered?" went on Polly.
Much to her disappointment, this minute description did not seem to clear
Sam's mind.

"You see, that fits so many of them," he said, apologetically.

"The wife died after he was killed," hazarded the girl, anxiously.

"Hold on--you mean the old duffer who lived up Wildcat Canyon?" demanded
Penhallow. "Woman had a stroke--they found her up there dead. Their name
was 'Gasca' or 'Gomez' or something of that kind."

"I knew it!" Polly's voice was triumphant. "If I don't make Marc Scott
apologize to me----" Then, calming herself, she continued: "I'm going to
spin you a yarn, Mr. Penha