“Now, by recognizing him, I’ve fixed it so that he is obliged to kill me,” he muttered.  “It’s my life, or his neck for a halter, and he knows it.  The blood-thirsty devil!  If I could only get to Brissac’s bunk-shanty and lay my hands on a gun ...”

There seemed to be no chance of doing that most desirable thing.  The Mexican was now afoot and coursing the railroad yard like a baffled hound.  Ford saw that it was only a question of minutes until his impromptu hiding-place would be discovered, and he began to look for another.  The Nadia was but a short distance away, and the lighted deck transoms beckoned him.

It was instinct rather than intention that made him duck and plunge headlong through the suddenly opened door of the private car at the glimpse of his pursuer standing beside his horse in the open camp street.  This was why the pistol barked harmlessly.  Springing to his feet, and leaving the frightened negro who had admitted him trying to barricade the door with cushions from the smoking-room seats, Ford burst into the lighted central compartment.

It was not empty, as he had expected to find it.  Two men, startled by the shots and the crash of breaking glass, were prepared to grapple him.  It was Brissac, the invalided assistant, who cried, “Hold on, Mr. Adair—­it’s Ford, and he’s hurt!”

Ford met the involuntary rush, gathered the two in his uncrippled arm and dragged them to the floor.

“That’s in case my assassin takes a notion to turn loose on the windows,” he panted.  Then he gasped out his story while Brissac got the aching right arm out of its sleeve and looked for the injury.

Adair listened to the story of the attempted murder awe-struck, as one from the civilized East had a right to be.

“By Jove!” he commented; “I thought I had bumped into all the different varieties of deviltry since I left Denver yesterday morning, but this tops ’em.  Actually tried to kill you in cold blood?  But what for, Stuart?—­for heaven’s sake, what for?”

“Because he was hired to:  because his masters, the MacMorroghs, and their master, North, have staked their roll on this last turn of the cards.  I know too much, Adair.  The president was sent over here to get rid of me.  That failing, word was passed down the line that I was to be effaced.  A few hours ago this Mexican overheard me telling your sister what I proposed to do to North and the MacMorroghs.  That’s why he—­Ouch!  Roy; that is my arm you’re trying to twist out of joint, man!”

“It’s all right,” laughed the Louisianian; “it is only a crazy-bone bump that you got when the bronc’ threw you.  Say, Ford; I thought you claimed to know how to ride a horse!”

Adair was feeling in his pockets for the inevitable cigarette case.

“What he overheard you telling Alicia?” he mused.  “I’m evidently two or three chapters behind.  But no matter; this is the now; the very immediate now.  Will your assassin keep on feeling for you?”