find friends on the Pecos."

"Yes?" asked Dinsmore, halfway between insolence and incredulity.

"That's my advice. You don't need to take it if you don't want to."

"Oh, it listens good to me. I'll take it all right, Mr. Ranger. There
are parties in Mexico that can use me right now at a big figure. The
Lincoln County War is still goin' good." The bad-man challenged Roberts
with bold eyes. "But what I'm wonderin' is how much Clint Wadley paid
you to throw down Cap Ellison."

The anger burned in Jack's face. "Damn you, Dinsmore, I might 'a' known
you'd think somethin' like that. I'll tell you this. I quit bein' a
Ranger at six o'clock this evenin', an' I haven't seen or heard from
Wadley since I quarreled with him about you."

"So you're turnin' me loose because you're so fond of me. Is that it?"
sneered the outlaw.

"I'll tell you just why I'm turnin' you loose, Dinsmore. It's because
for twenty-four hours in yore rotten life you were a white man. When I
was sleepin' on yore trail you turned to take Miss Wadley back to the
A T O. When the 'Paches were burnin' the wind after you an' her, you
turned to pick her up after she had fallen. When you might have lit out
up the canon an' left her alone, you stayed to almost certain death. You
were there all the time to a fare-you-well. From that one good day that
may take you to heaven yet, I dragged you in here with a rope around
yore neck. I had to do it, because I was a Ranger. But Wadley was right
when he said it wasn't _human_. I'm a private citizen now, an' I'm
makin' that wrong right."

"You'd ought to go to Congress. You got the gift," said Dinsmore with
dry irony. Five minutes earlier he had been, as Roberts said, a man with
a rope around his neck. Now he was free, the wide plains before him over
which to roam. He was touched, felt even a sneaking gratitude to this
young fellow who was laying up trouble for himself on his account; and
he was ashamed of his own emotion.

"I'll go to jail; that's where I'll go," answered Jack grimly. "But
that's not the point."

"I'll say one thing, Roberts. I didn't kill Hank. One of the other boys
did. It can't do him any harm to say so now," muttered Dinsmore
awkwardly.

"I know. Overstreet shot him."

"That was just luck. It might have been me."

Jack looked straight and hard at him. "Will you answer me one question?
Who killed Rutherford Wadley?"

"Why should I?" demanded the bad-man, his eyes as hard and steady as
th