At a less strenuous moment the man-killer would have been puzzled by the unusual stillness and the air of desertion.  As it was, he was alertly probing the far-flung shadows.  The engineer, if only wounded, would doubtless try to hide in the shadows in the railroad yard.

The Mexican left his horse in the camp street and made an instant search between and under the material cars, coming out now and again to stare suspiciously at the president’s private car, standing alone on the siding directly opposite the commissary.  The Nadia was occupied.  It was lighted within, and the window shades were drawn down.  Ruiz Gregorio could never get far from the lighted car without being irresistibly drawn back to it, and finally he darted back in time to see a man rise up out of the shadow of the nearest box-car, spring to the platform of the Nadia and kick lustily at the locked door.  The door was opened immediately by some one within, and the fugitive plunged to cover—­but not before the Mexican’s revolver had barked five times with the rapid staccato of a machine gun.

When Ruiz Gregorio, dropping the smoking weapon into its holster, would have mounted to put into instant action the plan of the well-considered alibi, a barrel-bodied figure launched itself from the commissary porch, and a vigorous hand dragged horse and man into the shadow of the stables.

“Off wid you now, you blunderin’ dago divvle!” gritted the MacMorrogh savagely.  “It’s all av our necks ye’ve put into a rope, this time, damn you!”

The Mexican had dismounted and was calmly reloading his pistol.

“You t’ink-a he’s not-a sufficiently kill?  I go over to da car and bring-a you da proof, si?”

“You’ll come wid me,” raved the big contractor. “’Tis out av your clumsy hands, now, ye black-hearted blunderin’ cross betune a Digger Indian and a Mexican naygur!  Come on, I say!”

The back room of the commissary to which the MacMorrogh led the way held three men; Eckstein, and the two younger members of the contracting firm.  They had heard the fusillade in the camp street and were waiting for news.  Brian MacMorrogh gave it, garnished with many oaths.

“The pin-brained omadhaun av a Mexican has twishted a rope for all av us!  He’s let Ford come back, alive; let him get to the very dure av the prisident’s car!  Then, begorra! he must mades show himself under the electhrics and open fire on the man who was kicking at the dure and looking sthraight at him!”

Eckstein asked a single question.

“Did he get him?  If he’s dead he can’t very well tell who shot him.”

“That’s the hell av it!” raged the big man.  “Who’s to know?”

Eckstein spat out the extinct cigar stump he was chewing.

“We are to know—­beyond a question of doubt, this time.  Who is in the
Nadia, besides Ford?”

“The two naygurs.”

“No one else?”

MacMorrogh shook his head.  “No wan.”