tograph of Juan and his senora taken on their wedding day, an abalone
shell on which was painted something resembling a horse and rider--

"The gold is hidden in the house of Pedro Salazar, of Sonora. It is
buried in the earth beneath his bed."

Jose Vaca had spoken, but Waring was watching Ramon's eyes.

"All right, hombre. Muchas gracias."

"And now you will let me go?" queried Vaca.

"I haven't said so." Waring's tone was pleasant, almost indifferent.

Ramon's face was troubled. Of what use was it to try and deceive the
gringo? But Waring was smiling. Did he, then, believe such an obvious
lie?

"Bueno!" Waring exclaimed. "That lets _you_ out. Now, what about you,
Ramon?"

"My uncle has spoken," said Ramon. "I have nothing to say."

"Then you will ride with me to Sonora."

"As you say, senor."

"All right. Don't sit up all night praying. That won't do any good. Get
some sleep. And you, too, Juan." And Waring turned quickly to Armigo.
"Sleep all you can. You'll feel better in the morning."

Waring turned and strode out. In the corral he spread his blankets. With
his head on the saddle, he lay gazing up at the stars.

The horses, with the exception of Waring's buckskin Dex, huddled in one
corner of the corral. That strange shape stretched quietly on the ground
was new to them.

For a long time the horse Dex stood with head lowered and one hip sagged
as he rested. Just before Waring slept he felt a gentle nosing of his
blankets. The big horse sniffed curiously.

"Strange blankets, eh?" queried Waring drowsily. "But it's the same old
partner, Dex."

The horse walked slowly away, nosing along the fence. Waring knew that
he was well sentineled. The big buckskin would resent the approach of a
stranger by snorting. Waring turned on his side and slept. His day's
work was done.

CHAPTER III

_Donovan's Hand_

Waring was up with the first faint streak of dawn. He threw hay to the
horses and strode briskly to the adobe. Juan Armigo was bending over the
kitchen stove. Waring nodded to him and stepped to the next room. The
Mexicans were asleep; young Ramon lying face down beneath the crucifix
on the wall, where he had knelt in prayer most of the night.

Waring drew back quietly.

"Let them sleep," he told Juan in the kitchen.

After frijoles and coffee, the gunman rose and gestured to Juan to
follow him.

Out near the corral, Waring turned suddenly. "You say that young Ramon
is straight?"

"