, "we're after
that cow-lifter, an' we mean to get him. Savvy?"

The monk did not appear to hear him, so he tried another tack. "_Habla
Espanola?_" he asked, experimentally.

"You have ridden far?" replied the monk in perfect English.

"All the way from the Bend," Red replied, relieved. "We're after Jerry
Brown. He tried to kill Johnny, an' near made good. An' I reckon we've
treed him, judging from the tracks."

"And if you capture him?"

"He won't have no more use for no side pocket shooting."

"I see; you will kill him."

"Shore's it's wet outside."

"I'm afraid you are doomed to disappointment."

"Ya-as?" asked Red with a rising inflection.

"You will not want him now," replied the monk.

Red laughed sarcastically and Hopalong smiled.

"There ain't a-going to be no argument about it. Trot him out," ordered
Red, grimly.

The monk turned to Hopalong. "Do you, too, want him?"

Hopalong nodded.

"My friends, he is safe from your punishment."

Red wheeled instantly and ran outside, returning in a few moments,
smiling triumphantly. "There are tracks coming in, but there ain't none
going away. He's here. If you don't lead us to him we'll shore have to
rummage around an' poke him out for ourselves: which is it?"

"You are right--he is here, and he is not here."

"We're waiting," Red replied, grinning.

"When I tell you that you will not want him, do you still insist on
seeing him?"

"We'll see him, an' we'll want him, too."

As the rain poured down again the sound of approaching horses was heard,
and Hopalong ran to the door in time to see Buck Peters swing off his
mount and step forward to enter the building. Hopalong stopped him and
briefly outlined the situation, begging him to keep the men outside. The
monk met his return with a grateful smile and, stepping forward, opened
the chapel door, saying, "Follow me."

The unpretentious chapel was small and nearly dark, for the usual
dimness was increased by the lowering clouds outside. The deep, narrow
window openings, fitted with stained glass, ran almost to the rough-hewn
rafters supporting the steep-pitched roof, upon which the heavy rain
beat again with a sound like that of distant drums. Gusts of rain
and the water from the roof beat against the south windows, while the
wailing wind played its mournful cadences about the eaves, and the
stanch timbers added their creaking notes to swell the dirge-like
chorus.

At the farther end of the room tw