A shadow fell across the floor.

“Hands up!” said the sheriff of Dona Ana.  “We want Chris Foy!”

Chapter IV

Navajo, Pima, and Hopi enjoy seven cardinal points—­north, east, west, south, up, down, and right here.  In these and any intermediate directions from the Vorhis Ranch the diligent posse comitatus made swift and jealous search through the slow hours of afternoon.  It commandeered the V H Saddle horses in the corral; it searched for sign in the soft earth of the wandering draws between the dozen low hills scattered round Big Thumb Butte and Little Thumb Butte; it rode circles round the ranch; the sign of Christopher Foy’s shod horse was found and followed hotfoot by a detachment.  Eight men had arrived in the first bunch, with the sheriff; others from every angle joined by twos and threes from hour to hour till the number rose to above a score.  A hasty election provided a protesting cook and a horse wrangler; a V H beef was slaughtered.

The posse was rather equally divided between two classes—­simpletons and fools.  The first unquestionably believed Foy to be a base and cowardly murderer, out of law, whom it were most righteous to harry; else, as the storied juryman put it, “How came he there?” The other party were of those who hold that evildoing may permanently prosper and endure.

In the big living room of the adobe ranch house much time had been wasted in cross-questions and foolish answers.  Stella Vorhis had been banished to her own room and Sheriff Matt Lisner had privately told off a man to make sure she did not escape.

Lisner and Ben Creagan, crossest of the four examiners, had been prepared to meet by crushing denial an eager and indignant statement from Pringle, adducing the Gadsden House affair and his subsequent companying with Foy as proof positive of Foy’s innocence.  That no such accusation came from Pringle set these able but mystified deniers entirely at a loss, left the denial high and dry.  Creagan mopped his brow furtively.

“Vorhis,” said Sheriff Matt, red and angry from an hour’s endeavor, “I think you’re telling a pack of lies—­every word of it.  You know mighty well where Foy is.”

The Major’s gray goatee quivered.

“Guess I’ll tell you lies if I want to,” he retorted defiantly.

“But, Sheriff, he may be telling us the truth,” urged Paul Breslin.  “Foy may very well have ridden here alone before Vorhis got here.  I’ve known the Major a long time.  He isn’t the man to protect a red-handed murderer.”

“Aw, bah!  How do you know I won’t?  How do you know he’s a murderer?  You make me sick!” declared the Major hotly.  Breslin was an honest, well-meaning farmer; the Major was furious to find such a man allied with Foy’s foes—­certain sign that other decent blockheads would do likewise.  “Matt Lisner tells you Kit Foy is a murderer and you believe him implicitly:  Matt Lisner tells you I’m a liar—­but you stumble at that.  Why?  Because you think about me—­that’s why!  Why don’t you try that plan about Foy—­thinking?”