a room at the hotel and divided the money Warren
had paid for the horses. None of them had slept for the last fifty hours
and Mac proposed to tumble into bed at once.

Bad Bill shook his head. "I wouldn't, Mac. Let's hit the trail and do our
sleeping in the hills. There's too many telephone lines into this town to
suit me."

"Sho! We made a clean getaway, and we're plumb wore out. Our play isn't to
hike out like we were scared stiff of something. What we want to do is to
act as if we could look every darned citizen in the face. Mac's sure
right," Curly agreed.

"You kids make me tired. As if you knew anything about it. I'm going to
dust _muy pronto_," Blackwell snarled.

"Sure. Whenever you like. You go and we'll stay. Then everybody'll be
satisfied. We got to split up anyhow," Mac said.

Bad Bill looked at Blackwell and nodded. "That's right. We don't all want
to pull a blue streak. That would be a dead give away. Let the kids stay
if they want to."

"So as they can round on us if they're nabbed," Blackwell sneered.

Cranston called him down roughly. "That'll be enough along that line,
Lute. I don't stand for any more cracks like it."

Blackwell, not three months out from the penitentiary, faced the other
with an ugly look in his eyes. He was always ready to quarrel, but he did
not like to fight unless he had a sure thing. He knew Bad Bill was an ugly
customer when he once got started.

"Didn't mean any harm," the ex-convict growled. "But I don't like this
sticking around town. I tell you straight I don't like it."

"Then I wouldn't stay if I were you," Curly suggested promptly. "Mac and I
have got a different notion. So we'll tie to Saguache for a day or two."

As soon as the older men had gone the others tumbled into bed and fell
asleep at once. Daylight was sifting in through the open window before
their eyes opened. Somebody was pounding on the bedroom door, which
probably accounted for Flandrau's dream that a sheriff was driving nails
in the lid of a coffin containing one Curly.

Mac was already out of bed when his partner's feet hit the floor.

"What's up, Mac?"

The eyes of the redheaded puncher gleamed with excitement. His six-gun was
in his hand. By the look of him he was about ready to whang loose through
the door.

"Hold your horses, you chump," Curly sang out "It's the hotel clerk. I
left a call with him."

But it was not the hotel clerk after all. Through the door came a quick,
jerky vo