beside Concho, unrolled him, placed his hand upon his
wrist, his ear over his heart, and then said:

"Dead."

"Of course. He got medicine of you last night. This comes of your d----d
heroic practice."

But the Doctor was too much occupied to heed the speaker's raillery. He
had peered into Concho's protuberant eye, opened his mouth, and gazed at
the swollen tongue, and then suddenly rose to his feet.

"Tear down those notices, boys, but keep them. Put up your own. Don't
be alarmed, you will not be interfered with, for here is murder added to
robbery."

"Murder?"

"Yes," said the Doctor, excitedly, "I'll take my oath on any inquest
that this man was strangled to death. He was surprised while asleep.
Look here." He pointed to the revolver still in Concho's stiffening
hand, which the murdered man had instantly cocked, but could not use in
the struggle.

"That's so," said the President, "no man goes to sleep with a cocked
revolver. What's to be done?"

"Everything," said the Doctor. "This deed was committed within the last
two hours; the body is still warm. The murderer did not come our way,
or we should have met him on the trail. He is, if anywhere, between here
and Tres Pinos."

"Gentlemen," said the President, with a slight preparatory and half
judicial cough, "two of you will stay here and stick! The others will
follow me to Tres Pinos. The law has been outraged. You understand the
Court!"

By some odd influence the little group of half-cynical, half-trifling,
and wholly reckless men had become suddenly sober, earnest citizens.
They said, "Go on," nodded their heads, and betook themselves to their
horses.

"Had we not better wait for the inquest and swear out a warrant?" said
the Secretary, cautiously.

"How many men have we?"

"Five!"

"Then," said the President, summing up the Revised Statutes of the State
of California in one strong sentence; "then we don't want no d----d
warrant."

CHAPTER V

WHO HAD A LIEN ON IT

It was high noon at Tres Pinos. The three pines from which it gained its
name, in the dusty road and hot air, seemed to smoke from their balsamic
spires. There was a glare from the road, a glare from the sky, a glare
from the rocks, a glare from the white canvas roofs of the few shanties
and cabins which made up the village. There was even a glare from the
unpainted red-wood boards of Roscommon's grocery and tavern, and a
tendency of the warping floor of the veranda to curl up