The horsemen rode into the corral.

“No; don’t go, Sheriff,” said Anastacio.

“I’m anxious to see if those two will recognize Ananias the Amateur.  They’ll be here directly.  You, either, Creagan.  Else I’ll shoot you both in the back, accidentally, cleaning my gun.”

From without was the sound of spurred feet in haste; three men appeared at the open door.

“Why, if it ain’t George!  Good old George!” cried Pringle, rising with outstretched arms.  “And my dear friend Espalin!  What a charming reunion!”

Applegate’s eyes threw a startled question at his chief and at Creagan; Espalin slipped swiftly back through the door.

“I don’t know you, sir,” said Applegate.

“George!  You’re never going to disown me!  Joe’s gone, too.  Nobody loves me!”

The third man, a grizzled and bristly old warrior with a limp, broke in with a roar.

“What in hell’s going on here?” he stormed.

“You are, for one thing, if you don’t moderate your voice,” said Anastacio.  “Nueces, you bellow like the bulls of Bashan.  Mr. Applegate, meet Mr. Pringle.”

“What does he mean, then, by such monkeyshines?” demanded the other—­old Nueces River, chief of police, ex-ranger, and, for this occasion, deputy sheriff.  “I got no time for foolishness.  And you can’t run no whizzer on me, Barela.  Don’t you try it!”

“Oh, they’re just joking, Nueces,” said the Major.  “Tell us how about it.  Here, I’ll light the lamp; it’s getting dark.  Find any sign of Foy?”

Nueces leveled a belligerent finger at the Major.

“You’ve been joking, too!  I’ve heard about you.  Lisner, I’m ashamed of you!  Let Vorhis pull the wool over your eyes, while you sit here and jaw all afternoon, doing nothing!”

“Why, what did you find out?”

“A-plenty.  Them stiffs you sent out found Foy’s horse, to begin with.”

“Sure it was Foy’s horse?” queried Lisner eagerly.

“Sure!  I know the horse—­that big calico horse of his.”

“Why didn’t you follow him up?”

“Follow hell!  Oh, some of the silly fools are milling round out there—­going over to the San Andres to-night to take a big hunt manana.  Not me.  That horse was a blind.  They pottered round tryin’ to find some trace of Foy—­blind fools!—­till I met up with ’em.  I’d done gathered in that mizzable red-headed Joe Cowan on a give-out horse, claim-in’ he’d been chousin’ after broom-tails.  He’d planted Foy’s horse, I reckon.  But it can’t be proved, so I let him go.  He’ll have to walk in; that’s one good thing.”

“But Foy—­where do you figure Foy’s gone?”

“Maybe he simply was not,” suggested Pringle, “like Enoch when he was translated into all European languages, including the Scandinavian.”

“Pringle, if you say another word I’ll have you gagged!” said the exasperated sheriff.  “Don’t you reckon, Nueces, that Cowan brought Foy a barefooted horse?  He can’t have gone on afoot or you’d have seen his tracks.”