“I hope not; I don’t think it will—­without whisky to help it along,” said Frisbie, with another apologetic side glance for Miss Adair.

“Yes; but the whisky isn’t lacking—­there’s Pete Garcia and his stock of battle, murder and sudden death at Paint Rock, a short half-mile from Riley’s,” Ford broke in.

Frisbie’s smile, helped out by the grime and the coal dust, was triumphantly demoniacal.

“Not now there isn’t,” he amended; adding:  “Any fire-water at Paint Rock, I mean.  When Riley told me what was doing, I made a bee line for Garcia’s wickiup and notified him officially that he’d have to go out of business for the present.”

“Oh, you did?” said Ford.  “Of course he was quite willing to oblige you?  How much time did he give you to get out of pistol range?”

[Illustration:  “Miss Adair, you must let me introduce my friend, Mr. Richard Frisbie”]

Frisbie actually blushed—­in deference to the lady.

“Why—­er—­it was the other way round.  He double-quicked a little side-trip down the gulch while I knocked in the heads of his whisky barrels and wrecked his bar with a striking hammer I had brought along.”

For the first time in the interview the chief’s frown melted and he laughed approvingly.

“Miss Adair, you must let me introduce my friend and first assistant, Mr. Richard Frisbie.  He is vastly more picturesque than anything else we have to show you at this end of the Pacific Southwestern.  Dick—­Miss Alicia Adair, President Colbrith’s niece.”

Frisbie took off his hat, and Miss Alicia gave him her most gracious smile.

“Please go on,” she said.  “I’m immensely interested.  What became of Mr. Garcia afterward?”

“I don’t know that,” said Frisbie ingenuously.  “Only, I guess I shall find out when I go back.  He is likely to be a little irritated, I’m afraid.  But there are compensations, even in Pete:  like most Mexicans, he can neither tell the truth nor shoot straight.”  Then again to Ford:  “What is to be done about the Riley mix-up?”

“Oh, the same old thing.  Go down and tell the Italians that the company will stand between them and the MacMorroghs, and they shall have justice—­provided always that every man of them is back on the job again to-morrow morning.  Who is Riley’s interpreter now?”

“Lanciotto.”

“Well, look out for him:  he is getting a side-cut from the MacMorroghs and is likely to translate you crooked, if it suits his purposes.  Check him by having our man Luigi present when he does the talking act.  Any word from Major Benson?”

“He was at the tie-camp on Ute Creek, yesterday.  Jack Benson and Brissac are lining the grade for the steel on M’Grath’s section, and the bridge men are well up to the last crossing of Horse Creek.”

“That’s encouraging.  How about the grade work on the detour—­your new line into Copah?”

It was the assistant’s turn to frown, but the brow-wrinkling was of puzzlement.