"Of course I'll do what you ask," Engle said. "Is there anything else?"

"No. Just go on with Miss Page to see Ignacio. He will pretend to be
doubled up with pain and will tell his story of the tinned meat he ate
for supper. Then you can see her to the hotel and go back home,
sending the horse over right away. Then she will ride with me to see a
man who is hurt . . . or she will not, and I'll have to take a chance
on Patten."

"Who is it?" demanded Engle sharply.

"It's Brocky Lane," returned Norton, and again his voice told of rigid
muscles and hard eyes. "He's hurt bad, John. And, if we're to do him
any good we'd better be about it."

Engle said nothing. But the slow, deep breath he drew into his lungs
could not have been more eloquent of his emotion had it been expelled
in a curse.

"I'll slip around the back way to the hotel," said Norton. "I'll be
ready when Miss Page comes in. Good night, John."

Silently, without awaiting promise or protest from the girl, he was
gone into the deeper shadows of the cottonwoods.

CHAPTER VI

A RIDE THROUGH THE NIGHT

Ignacio Chavez, because thus he could be of service to _el senor_
Roderico Nortone whom he admired vastly and loved like a brother, drew
to the dregs upon his fine Latin talent, doubled up and otherwise
contorted and twisted his lithe body until the sweat stood out upon his
forehead. His groans would have done ample justice to the occasion had
he been dying.

Virginia treated him sparingly to a harmless potion she had secured at
her room on the way, put the bottle into the hands of Ignacio's
withered and anxious old mother, informed the half dozen Indian
onlookers that she had arrived in time and that the bell-ringer would
live, and then was impatient to go with Engle to Struve's hotel. Here
Engle left her to return to his home and to send the saddle-horse he
had promised Norton.

"You can ride, can't you, Virginia?" he had asked.

"Yes," she assured him.

"Then I'll send Persis around; she's the prettiest thing in horseflesh
you ever saw. And the gamest. And, Virginia . . ."

He hesitated. "Well?" she asked.

"There's not a squarer, whiter man in the world than Rod Norton," he
said emphatically. "Now good night and good luck, and be sure to drop
in on us to-morrow."

She watched him as he went swiftly down the street; then she turned
into the hotel and down the hall, which echoed to the click of her
heels, and to her room.