During the late hours of the night and the following forenoon the thing was ended.  Sheriff Roberts’s deputies with a posse in automobiles had raced southward, intercepting those other cars despatched toward the border by the Kid and del Rio.  Brocky Lane with a score of men had swept down upon the stolen herds, scattered them, fired fifty shots, emptied some three or four saddles, and sent the escaping rustlers flying toward the Mexican line.  Singly and in small groups other men, farmers, cowboys, miners, and the dwellers of small settlements, joined with Norton’s men, giving battle to those of Galloway’s crowd who had drawn back into the fastnesses of Mt.  Temple.  In the afternoon Norton, with the aid of a handful of cowboys from Brocky’s outfit and from Las Flores, escorted fifteen anxious-faced prisoners to the county-seat, where jail capacity was to be taxed.  And night had come again, serene and peaceful with the glory of the moon and stars, when he rode once more into San Juan, sore and saddle-weary.

At the hotel he learned that Virginia had gone to the Engles.  He left his jaded horse with Ignacio and walked down the street.  In front of the Casa Blanca he stopped a moment, staring musingly at the solid adobe walls gleaming white in the moonlight.  The place was quiet, deserted.  No single light winked at him through door or window.  It seemed to him to be brooding over the passing of Jim Galloway.

He found Florrie and Elmer strolling under the cottonwoods.  They had scant interest in him, little time to bestow upon a mere mortal.  Florrie could only cry ecstatically that Black Bill was a hero!  He, all alone, had terrorized the Mexican woman guarding her, had saved her, had brought her back.  And Elmer could only look pleased and stammer and whisper to Fluff to be still.

Virginia had heard his voice, the voice she had been listening for throughout so many long hours, and met him before he had come to the door.

“Oh, thank God, thank God!” she cried softly.  “But . . . you are hurt?”

He forgot his wound as both arms closed about her.  From somewhere at the rear of the house he heard Mrs. Engle’s voice crying eagerly; “It’s Roddy!” She was hurrying to greet him.  What he had to say must be said briefly.

“My work is done,” he said quickly.  “I have put in my resignation this afternoon.  They can get a new sheriff.  I am going to be a rancher, my dear.  And, Virginia . . .”

He was whispering to her, his lips close to her hair.  And Virginia, though her face was suddenly hot with the flush mounting to her brow, gave him steadily for answer: 

“Whenever you wish, Rod Norton!”

So it was only twenty-four hours later that Ignacio Chavez stood in the old Mission garden and made his bells talk, just the three upon the western arch, the Little One, La Golondrina, and Ignacio Chavez, the golden-throated trio that tinkled to the touch of his cunning hand and seemed to laugh and sing and proclaim the gladdest of glad tidings.  Then Ignacio drew his enrapt gaze earthward from the full moon and made out a man and a girl riding out into the night, riding toward the Ranch of the Flowers.  And he made the bells laugh again.