him soon. Now, sor, if it's yer pleasure, I'll be after saying good-bye
to ye, sor; an' to ye, too," he said, shaking hands with both punches.
"Fer a sick la-ad ye're a wonder, ye are that," he smiled at Johnny,
"but ye want to kape away from the water fronts. Good-bye to ye both,
an' a pleasant journey home. The town is tin miles to me right, over
beyant them hills."

"Good-bye, Hogan," mumbled Hopalong gratefully. "Yo're square all the
way through; an' if you ever get out of a job or in any kind of trouble
that I can help you out of, come up to the Bar-20 an' you won't have to
ask twice. Good luck!" And the two sore and aching punchers, wiser in
the ways of the world, plodded doggedly towards the town, ten miles
away.

The next morning found them in the saddle, bound for Dent's hotel and
store near the San Miguel Canyon. When they arrived at their destination
and Johnny found there was some hours to wait for Red, his restlessness
sent him roaming about the country, not so much "seeking what he might
devour" as hoping something might seek to devour him. He was so sore
over his recent kidnapping that he longed to find a salve. He faithfully
promised Hopalong that he would return at noon.

CHAPTER III

DICK MARTIN STARTS SOMETHING

Dick Martin slowly turned, leaned his back against the bar, and
languidly regarded a group of Mexicans at the other end of the room.
Singly, or in combinations of two or more, each was imparting all he
knew, or thought he knew about the ghost of San Miguel Canyon. Their
fellow-countryman, new to the locality, seemed properly impressed. That
it was the ghost of Carlos Martinez, murdered nearly one hundred years
before at the big bend in the canyon, was conceded by all; but there was
a dispute as to why it showed itself only on Friday nights, and why it
was never seen by any but a Mexican. Never had a Gringo seen it. The
Mexican stranger was appealed to: Did this not prove that the murder
had been committed by a Mexican? The stranger affected to consider the
question.

Martin surveyed them with outward impassiveness and inward contempt. A
realist, a cynic, and an absolute genius with a Colt .45, he was well
known along the border for his dare-devil exploits and reckless courage.
The brainiest men in the Secret Service, Lewis, Thomas, Sayre, and
even old Jim Lane, the local chief, whose fingers at El Paso felt every
vibration along the Rio Grande, were not as well known--except to thos