Waring led the two saddled horses to the house.  Ramon, coming from the kitchen, blinked in the sunlight.

“It is my horse, but not my saddle, senor.”

“You are an honest man,” laughed Waring.  “But we won’t change saddles.  Come on!”

Ramon mounted and rode beside Waring until they were out of sight of the ranch-house, when Waring reined up.

“Where is that money?” he asked suddenly.

“I do not know, senor.”

“Did you know where it was yesterday?”

Ramon hesitated.  Was this a trap?  Waring’s level gaze held the young Mexican to a straight answer.

“Si, senor.  I knew—­yesterday.”

“You knew; but you didn’t talk up when your uncle tried to run me into Pedro Salazar.”

“I—­he is of my family.”

“Well, I don’t blame you.  I see that you can keep from talking when you have to.  And now is your chance to do a lot of keeping still.  I’m going to ride into Sonora ahead of you.  When you get in, go home and forget that you made this journey.  If your folks ask where your uncle is, tell them that he rode south and that you turned back.  Because you did didn’t lie to me, and because you did didn’t show yellow, I’m going to give you a chance to get out of this.  I let your uncle go because he would have given you away to save himself the minute I jailed him in Sonora.  It’s up to you to keep out of trouble.  You’ve had a scare that ought to last you.  Take your time and hit Sonora about sundown.  Adios.”

“But—­senor!”

Waring whirled his horse.  “A good rider shoves his foot clear home,” he called as he loped away.

Ramon sat his horse, gazing at the little puffs of dust that shot from the hoofs of the big buckskin.  Surely the gringo was mad!  Yet he was a man of big heart.  Perplexed, stunned by the realization that he was alone and free, the young Mexican gazed about him.  Waring was a tiny figure in the distance.  Ramon dismounted and examined the empty tapaderas.

Heretofore he had considered subtlety, trickery, qualities to be desired, and not incompatible with honor.  In a flash he realized the difference, the distinction between trickery and keenness of mind.  He had been awed by his uncle’s reputation and proud to name him of this family.  Now he saw him for what he was.  “My Uncle Jose is a bad man,” he said to himself.  “The other,—­the gringo whom men call ’The Killer,’—­he is a hard man, but assuredly he is not bad.”

When Ramon spoke to his horse his voice trembled.  His hand drifted up to the little silver crucifix on his breast.  A vague glimmer of understanding, a sense of the real significance of the emblem heartened him to face the journey homeward and the questions of his kin.  And, above all, he felt an admiration for the gringo that grew by degrees as he rode on.  He could follow such a man to the end of the world, even across the border of the Great Unknown, for surely such a leader would not lose the way.