that refused responsibility for the outcome. After all, Tony had made
his own decision. He had chosen to take his chances in Tascosa rather
than on the spot with the Ranger.

"Saddle Tony's horse," ordered Roberts, looking at one of the Mexicans.

The man growled something in his native tongue, but none the less he
moved toward the corral.

Within a quarter of an hour the Ranger and his prisoner were on their
way. Two days later Roberts delivered his man to the deputy sheriff who
had charge of the sod-house jail in the little town.

"There's a message here for you from Cap Ellison," the deputy said. "He
wants you to go to Clarendon. Says you were to jog on down soon as you
show up here."

"All right, Snark."

He rode down next day, changed horses at the halfway station, and
reached Clarendon early in the morning. Ellison had been called to
Mobeetie, but left instructions for him to await his return.

The semi-weekly stage brought two days later a letter, to Captain
Ellison from Snark. Jack Roberts, obeying office instructions, opened
the mail. The letter said:

Dere Cap,

They are aiming to lynch that Mexican Roberts brought in. The
Dinsmore outfit is stirring up the town. Send a company of your
Rangers, for God's sake, quick.

Respectably yours
Jim Snark

Jack Roberts was the only Ranger in town. He glanced at the clock. There
was just time to catch the stage to Tascosa. He reached for his guns and
his hat.

CHAPTER XII

TEX REARRANGES THE SEATING

The Tascosa stage was full. Its passengers were "packed like Yanks at
Libby Prison," according to one of them, an ex-Confederate who had
drifted West after the war. They were of the varied types common to the
old Southwest--a drover, a cattle-buyer, a cowpuncher looking for a job,
a smart salesman from St. Louis, and one young woman. Beside the driver
on the box sat a long-bodied man in buckskin with a clean brown jaw and
an alert, sardonic eye.

The salesman, a smooth, good-looking fellow whose eye instinctively
rested on attractive women, made inquiries of Joe Johnson's old trooper.

"Who's the damsel?"

"Which?"

"The girl. She's a pippin." His possessive eye gloated on the young
woman in front. "She didn't learn how to dress in this neck of the
woods, either. Betcha she's from New Orleans or St. Louis."

The old war