admire the adroitness with which she had
utilized her friend to serve her end.

They walked to the station three abreast, the outlaw carrying as lightly
as he could the heavy suitcase that held his plunder. Melissy made small
talk while they waited for the train. She was very nervous, and she was
trying not to show it.

"Next time you come, lieutenant, we'll have a fine stone depot to show
you. Mr. West has promised to make Mesa the junction point, and we're sure
to have a boom," she said.

A young Mexican vaquero trailed softly behind them, the inevitable
cigarette between his lips. From under his broad, silver-laced sombrero he
looked keenly at each of the three as he passed.

A whistle sounded clearly in the distance.

The outlaw turned to the girl beside him. "I'm coming back some day soon.
Be sure of that, Mrs. MacQueen."

The audacity of the name used, designed as it was to stab her friend and
to remind Melissy how things stood, made the girl gasp. She looked quickly
at Bellamy and saw him crush the anger from his face.

The train drew into the station. Presently the conductor's "All aboard!"
served notice that it was starting. The outlaw shook hands with Melissy
and then with the mine owner.

"Good-bye. Don't forget that I'm coming back," he said, in a perfectly
distinct, low tone.

And with that he swung aboard the Pullman car with his heavy suitcase. An
instant later the Mexican vaquero pulled himself to the vestibule of the
smoking car ahead.

MacQueen looked back from the end of the train at the two figures on the
platform. A third figure had joined them. It was Jack Flatray. The girl
and the sheriff were looking at each other. With a furious oath, he turned
on his heel. For the evidence of his eyes had told him that they were
lovers.

MacQueen passed into the coach and flung himself down into his section
discontentedly. The savor of his adventure was gone. He had made his
escape with a large share of the plunder, in spite of spies and posses.
But in his heart he knew that he had lost forever the girl whom he had
forced to marry him. He was still thinking about it somberly when a figure
appeared in the aisle at the end of the car.

Instantly the outlaw came to alert attention, and his hand slipped to the
butt of a revolver. The figure was that of the Mexican vaquero whom he had
carelessly noted on the platform of the station. Vigilantly his gaze
covered the approaching man. Surely in Arizona t