The fire did not immediately die out, but it soon began to dwindle.  Only here and there did it leap forward with its old savage fury.  Presently these sporadic plunges wore themselves out for lack of fuel.  The devastated area became a smouldering, smoking char showing a few isolated blazes in the barren ruin.  There were still possibilities of harm in them if the wind should shift again, but for the present they were subdued to a shadow of their former strength.  It remained the business of the fire-fighters to keep a close watch on the red-hot embers to prevent them from being flung far by the breeze.

Fortunately the wind died down soon, reducing the danger to a minimum.

Dave handed back to Shorty the revolver he had borrowed so peremptorily from his holster.

“Much obliged.  I won’t need this any more.”

The cowpuncher spoke grimly.  “I’m liable to.”

“Mexico is a good country for a cattleman,” Sanders said, looking straight at him.

Shorty met him eye to eye.  “So I’ve been told.”

“Good range and water-holes.  Stock fatten well.”

“Yes.”

“A man might do worse than go there if he’s worn out this country.”

“Stage-robbers and rustlers right welcome, are they?” asked Shorty hardily.

“No questions asked about a man’s past if his present is O.K.”

“Listens good.  If I meet anybody lookin’ to make a change I’ll tell him you recommended Mexico.”  The eyes of the two men still clashed.  In each man’s was a deep respect for the other’s gameness.  They had been tried by fire and come through clean.  Shorty voiced this defiantly.  “I don’t like a hair of yore head.  Never did.  You’re too damned interferin’ to suit me.  But I’ll say this.  You’ll do to ride the river with, Sanders.”

“I’ll interfere again this far, Shorty.  You’re too good a man to go bad.”

“Oh, hell!” The outlaw turned away; then thought better of it and came back.  “I’ll name no names, but I’ll say this.  Far as I’m concerned Tim Harrigan might be alive to-day.”

Dave, with a nod, accepted this as true.  “I guessed as much.  You’ve been running with a mighty bad pardner.”

“Have I?” asked the rustler blandly.  “Did I say anything about a pardner?”

His eye fell on the three still figures lying on the hillside in a row.  Not a twitching muscle in his face showed what he was thinking, that they might have been full of splendid life and vigor if Dug Doble had not put a match to the chaparral back of Bear Canon.  The man had murdered them just as surely as though he had shot them down with a rifle.  For weeks Shorty had been getting his affairs in order to leave the country, but before he went he intended to have an accounting with one man.

Dillon came up to Sanders and spoke in an awed voice.  “What do you aim to do with ... these, Sanders?” His hand indicated the bodies lying near.