“Benito,” Adrian addressed him earnestly, “Alice is with me.  With me and Inez.  She’s safe.  I’ll bring her to you in the morning.  Do you understand?”

“With you—­with Inez?” the sick man repeated.  “Then tell her to come.  I want her.  Tell Alice to come—­”

“Tomorrow,” Dr. Jones said, soothingly, “when you’ve had a chance to rest.”

“No, tonight,” the fevered eyes stared up at them imploringly.  Jones drew Adrian aside.  “Pretend you’ll do it or hell wear himself out.  Then go.  I’ll give him something that will make him sleep.”  He emptied a powder in a tumbler of water and held it out to the sick man.  “Drink this,” he ordered, “it’ll give you strength to see Miss Burthen.”

Benito’s lips obediently quaffed the drink.  His head lay quieter upon the pillow.  Slowly, as they watched, the eyelids closed.

“And now,” said Adrian when he had assured himself that Benito slept, “I’m going for McTurpin.”

“Don’t be a confounded fool,” Dr. Jones said quickly.

But Stanley paid no heed.  He went directly into the saloon and looked about him.  At a table, back toward him, sat a stocky figure, playing cards and reaching for the rum container at his side.  Adrian stood a moment, musing; then his right hand slid down to his hip; a forward stride and the left hand fell on the player’s shoulder.

“We meet once more, McTurpin.”

The gambler rose so suddenly that the stool on which he sat rolled over.  His face was red with wine and rage.  His fingers moved toward an inner pocket.

“Don’t,” said Adrian meaningly.  The hand fell back.

“What do you want?” the gambler growled.

“A quiet talk, my friend.  Come with me.”

“And, suppose I refuse?” the other sneered.

“Oh, if you’re afraid—­” began Adrian.

McTurpin threw his cards upon the table.  Between him and a man across the board flashed a swift, unspoken message.  “I’m at your service, Mr.—­ah—­Stanley.”

He led the way out, and Adrian following, gave a quick glance backward, noting that the man across the table had arisen.  What he did not see was that Spear hovered in the offing, following them with watchful eyes.

Toward the north they strolled, past a huddle of tents, for the most part unlighted.  From some came snores and through many a windblown flap, the searching moonlight revealed sleeping figures.  On a waste of sand-dunes McTurpin paused.

“Now tell me what ye want,” he snarled, “and be damned quick about it.  I’ve small time to waste with meddlers.”

“On this occasion,” Stanley said, “you’ll take the time to note the following facts, Mr. McTurpin, Mr. Pillsworth—­or whatever your true name may be—­I’ve had a talk with Dandy Carter.  He recognized you and Gasket when Burthen was killed, in spite of your beard.  So did Rosa, of course, though she skipped the next morning.  The Burthen girl is at my house.”  He paused an instant, thinking that he heard a movement in a bush nearby.  “Well, that’s all,” he finished, “except this:  If I find you here tomorrow, Alec McTurpin, murderer, card-sharp and abductor, I’ll shoot you down like a dog.”