Junipero Street was not the usual crooked lane that serves as the main thoroughfare for business in a mining town.  For Malapi had been a cowtown before the discovery of oil.  It lay on the wide prairie and not in a gulch.  The street was broad and dusty, flanked by false-front stores, flat-roofed adobes, and corrugated iron buildings imported hastily since the first boom.

At the Stag Horn corral Dave hired a horse and saddled for a night ride.  On his way to the Jackpot he passed a dozen outfits headed for the new strike.  They were hauling supplies of food, tools, timbers, and machinery to the oil camp.  Out of the night a mule skinner shouted a profane and drunken greeting to him.  A Mexican with a burro train gave him a low-voiced “Buenos noches, senor.”

A fine mist of oil began to spray him when he was still a mile away from the well.  It grew denser as he came nearer.  He found Bob Hart, in oilskins and rubber boots, bossing a gang of scrapers, giving directions to a second one building a dam across a draw, and supervising a third group engaged in siphoning crude oil from one sump to another.  From head to foot Hart and his assistants were wet to the skin with the black crude oil.

“’Lo, Dave!  One sure-enough little spouter!” Bob shouted cheerfully.  “Number Three’s sure a-hittin’ her up.  She’s no cougher—­stays right steady on the job.  Bet I’ve wallowed in a million barrels of the stuff since mo’nin’.”  He waded through a viscid pool to Dave and asked a question in a low voice.  “What’s the good word?”

“We had a little luck,” admitted Sanders, then plumped out his budget of news.  “Got the express money back, captured one of the robbers, forced a confession out of him, and left him with the sheriff.”

Bob did an Indian war dance in hip boots.  “You’re the darndest go-getter ever I did see.  Tell it to me, you ornery ol’ scalawag.”

His friend told the story of the day so far as it related to the robbery.

“I could ‘a’ told you Miller would weaken when you had the rope round his soft neck.  Shorty would ‘a’ gone through and told you-all where to get off at.”

“Yes.  Miller’s yellow.  He didn’t quit with the robbery, Bob.  Must have been scared bad, I reckon.  He admitted that he killed George Doble—­by accident, he claimed.  Says Doble ran in front of him while he was shooting at me.”

“Have you got that down on paper?” demanded Hart.

“Yes.”

Bob caught his friend’s hand.  “I reckon the long lane has turned for you, old socks.  I can’t tell you how damn glad I am.  Doble needed killin’, but I’d rather you hadn’t done it.”

The other man made no comment on this phase of the situation.  “This brings Dug Doble out into the open at last.  He’ll come pretty near going to the pen for this.”

“I can’t see Applegate arrestin’ him.  He’ll fight, Dug will.  My notion is he’ll take to the hills and throw off all pretense.  If he does he’ll be the worst killer ever was known in this part of the country.  You an’ Crawford want to look out for him, Dave.”