The lounger, leaning on his elbow, suddenly straightened.  He pointed toward the doorway.  The saloon-keeper saw the motion from the corner of his eye.  He lowered his paper and rose.  In the soft radiance a riderless horse stood at the hitching-rail, his big eyes glowing, his ears pricked forward.  Across the horse’s shoulder was a ragged tear, black against the tawny gold of his coat.  The men glanced at each other.  It was the horse of the fourth man; the man who had staggered in that afternoon, asked for whiskey, and who had left as buoyantly as though he went to meet a friend.

“They got him,” said the saloon-keeper.

“They got him,” echoed the other.

Together they moved to the doorway and peered out.  The man who had first seen the horse stepped down and tied the reins to the rail.  He ran his hand down the horse’s shoulder over muscles that quivered as he examined the wound.  He glanced at the saddle, the coiled rope, the slackened cinches, and pointed to a black stain on the stirrup leather.

[Illustration:  I came over—­to tell you—­that it was Pat’s gun]

“From the south,” he said.  “Maguey rope, and that saddle was made in Mexico.”

“Mebby he wants water,” suggested the saloon-keeper.

“He’s had it.  Reins are wet where he drug ’em in the tank.”

“Wonder who them three fellas was?”

“Don’ know.  From up north, by their rig.  I’m wonderin’ who the fourth fella was—­and where he is.”

“Why, he’s out there, stiff’nin’ on the sand.  They’s been a fight.  And, believe me, if the others was like him—­she was a dandy!”

“I guess it’s up to us to do somethin’,” suggested the lounger.

“Not to-night, Bill.  You don’t ketch me ridin’ into a flash in the dark before I got time to tell myself I’m a dam’ fool.  In the mornin’, mebby—­”

Their heads came up as they heard a horse pounding down the road.  A lean pony, black with sweat, jumped to a trembling stop.

A young Mexican swung down and walked stiffly up to Dex.

“Where is Senor Jim?” he queried, breathing hard.

“Don’ know, hombre.  This his hoss?”

“Si!  It is Dex.”

‘Well, the hoss came in, recent, draggin’ the reins.”

“Then you have seen him?”

“Seen who?  Who are you, anyway?”

“Me, I am Ramon Ortego, of Sonora.  The Senor Jim is my friend.  I would find him.”

“Well, if your friend sports a black Stetson and a dam’ bad eye and performs with a short-barreled .45, he rode in this afternoon just about a hour behind three other fellas.  They lit out into the dry spot.  Reckon you’ll find your friend out there, if the coyotes ain’t got to him.”

Ramon limped to the rail and untied Dex.  Then he mounted his own horse.

“Dex,” he said softly, riding alongside, “where is the Senor Jim?”

The big buckskin swung his head round and sniffed Ramon’s hand.  Then he plodded down the street toward the desert.  At the tank Ramon let his horse drink.  Dex, like a great dog, sniffed the back trail on which he had come, plodding through the night toward the spot where he knew his master to be.