At the livery-stable, he asked for his horse.  The man in charge told him that Dex had been taken by the police.  That the Senor Bill Donovan and Pedro Salazar had come and shown him a paper,—­he could not read,—­but he knew the big seal.  It was Pedro Salazar who had ridden the horse.

The streets were still lighted, although the crowd was thinning.  Waring turned a corner and drifted through the shadows toward the edge of town.  As he passed open doorways he was greeted in Mexican, and returned each greeting pleasantly.  The adobe at the end of the side street he was on was dark.

Waring paused.  Pedro Salazar’s house was the only unlighted house in the district.  The circumstance hinted of an ambushment.  Waring crossed to the deeper shadows and whistled.  The call was peculiarly low and cajoling.  He was answered by a muffled nickering.  His horse Dex was evidently corralled at the back of the adobe.

Pedro Salazar knew that Waring would come for the horse sooner or later, so he waited, crouching behind the adobe wall of the enclosure.

Waring knocked loudly on Salazar’s door and called his name.  Then he turned and ran to the corner, dodged round it, and crept along the breast-high adobe wall.  He whistled again.  A rope snapped, and there came the sound of quick trampling.  A rush and the great, tawny shape of Dexter reared in the moonlight and swept over the wall.  With head up, the horse snorted a challenge.  Waring called softly.  The horse wheeled toward him.  Waring caught the broken neck-rope and swung up.  A flash cut the darkness behind him.  Instinctively he turned and threw two shots.  A figure crumpled to a dim blur in the corral.

Waring raced down the alley and out into the street.  At the livery-stable he asked for his saddle and bridle.  The Mexican, chattering, brought them.  Waring tugged the cinchas tight and mounted.  Far down the street some one called.

Waring rode to the hotel, dismounted, and strode in casually, pausing at Stanley’s door.  The cashier answered his knock.

“I’m off,” said Waring.  “And I’ll need some money.”

“All right, Jim.  What’s up?  How much?”

“A couple of hundred.  Charge it back to my account.  Got it?”

“No.  I’ll get it at the desk.”

“All right.  Settle my bill for me to-morrow.  Don’t stop to dress.  Rustle!”

A belated lounger glanced up in surprise as Waring, booted and spurred, entered the lobby with a man in pajamas.  They talked with the clerk a moment, shook hands, and Waring strode to the doorway.

“Any word for the Ortez people?” queried Stanley as Waring mounted.

“I left a little notice for Donovan—­at Pedro Salazar’s house,” said Waring.  “Donovan will understand.”  And Waring was gone.

The lounger accosted Stanley.  “What’s the row, Stanley?”

“I don’t know.  Jim Waring is in a hurry—­first time since I’ve known him.  Figure it out yourself.”