“Mr. Hawe, I can prove to you that Stewart was not concerned in any way whatever with the crime for which you want to arrest him.”

The sheriff’s stare underwent a blinking change.  He coughed, stammered, and tried to speak.  Manifestly, he had been thrown completely off his balance.  Astonishment slowly merged into discomfiture.

“It was absolutely impossible for Stewart to have been connected with that assault,” went on Madeline, swiftly, “for he was with me in the waiting-room of the station at the moment the assault was made outside.  I assure you I have a distinct and vivid recollection.  The door was open.  I heard the voices of quarreling men.  They grew louder.  The language was Spanish.  Evidently these men had left the dance-hall opposite and were approaching the station.  I heard a woman’s voice mingling with the others.  It, too, was Spanish, and I could not understand.  But the tone was beseeching.  Then I heard footsteps on the gravel.  I knew Stewart heard them.  I could see from his face that something dreadful was about to happen.  Just outside the door then there were hoarse, furious voices, a scuffle, a muffled shot, a woman’s cry, the thud of a falling body, and rapid footsteps of a man running away.  Next, the girl Bonita staggered into the door.  She was white, trembling, terror-stricken.  She recognized Stewart, appealed to him.  Stewart supported her and endeavored to calm her.  He was excited.  He asked her if Danny Mains had been shot, or if he had done the shooting.  The girl said no.  She told Stewart that she had danced a little, flirted a little with vaqueros, and they had quarreled over her.  Then Stewart took her outside and put her upon his horse.  I saw the girl ride that horse down the street to disappear in the darkness.”

While Madeline spoke another change appeared to be working in the man Hawe.  He was not long disconcerted, but his discomfiture wore to a sullen fury, and his sharp features fixed in an expression of craft.

“Thet’s mighty interestin’, Miss Hammond, ‘most as interestin’ as a story-book,” he said.  “Now, since you’re so obligin’ a witness, I’d sure like to put a question or two.  What time did you arrive at El Cajon thet night?”

“It was after eleven o’clock,” replied Madeline.

“Nobody there to meet you?”

“No.”

“The station agent an’ operator both gone?”

“Yes.”

“Wal, how soon did this feller Stewart show up?” Hawe continued, with a wry smile.

“Very soon after my arrival.  I think—­perhaps fifteen minutes, possibly a little more.”

“Some dark an’ lonesome around thet station, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed yes.”

“An’ what time was the Greaser shot?” queried Hawe, with his little eyes gleaming like coals.

“Probably close to half past one.  It was two o’clock when I looked at my watch at Florence Kingsley’s house.  Directly after Stewart sent Bonita away he took me to Miss Kingsley’s.  So, allowing for the walk and a few minutes’ conversation with her, I can pretty definitely say the shooting took place at about half past one.”