Stewart’s hand flashed out and hit Hawe’s face in a ringing slap.  The sheriff’s head jerked back, his sombrero fell to the ground.  As he bent over to reach it his hand shook, his arm shook, his whole body shook.

Monty Price jumped straight forward and crouched down with a strange, low cry.

Stewart seemed all at once rigid, bending a little.

“Say Miss Hammond, if there’s occasion to use her name,” said Stewart, in a voice that seemed coolly pleasant, yet had a deadly undernote.

Hawe did a moment’s battle with strangling fury, which he conquered in some measure.

“I said you was a low-down, drunken cow-puncher, a tough as damn near a desperado as we ever hed on the border,” went on Hawe, deliberately.  His speech appeared to be addressed to Stewart, although his flame-pointed eyes were riveted upon Monty Price.  “I know you plugged that vaquero last fall, an’ when I git my proof I’m comin’ after you.”

“That’s all right, Hawe.  You can call me what you like, and you can come after me when you like,” replied Stewart.  “But you’re going to get in bad with me.  You’re in bad now with Monty and Nels.  Pretty soon you’ll queer yourself with all the cowboys and the ranchers, too.  If that don’t put sense into you—­ Here, listen to this.  You knew what these boxes contained.  You know Don Carlos has been smuggling arms and ammunition across the border.  You know he is hand and glove with the rebels.  You’ve been wearing blinders, and it has been to your interest.  Take a hunch from me.  That’s all.  Light out now, and the less we see of your handsome mug the better we’ll like you.”

Muttering, cursing, pallid of face, Hawe climbed astride his horse.  His comrades followed suit.  Certain it appeared that the sheriff was contending with more than fear and wrath.  He must have had an irresistible impulse to fling more invective and threat upon Stewart, but he was speechless.  Savagely he spurred his horse, and as it snorted and leaped he turned in his saddle, shaking his fist.  His comrades led the way, with their horses clattering into a canter.  They disappeared through the gate.

* * *

When, later in the day, Madeline and Florence, accompanied by Alfred and Stillwell, left Don Carlos’s ranch it was not any too soon for Madeline.  The inside of the Mexican’s home was more unprepossessing and uncomfortable than the outside.  The halls were dark, the rooms huge, empty, and musty; and there was an air of silence and secrecy and mystery about them most fitting to the character Florence had bestowed upon the place.

On the other hand, Alfred’s ranch-house, where the party halted to spend the night, was picturesquely located, small and cozy, camplike in its arrangement, and altogether agreeable to Madeline.