“How do they get down into it?”

“‘Long a windin’ trail on the west side.  It used to be mighty rough, I reckon, an’ only good fer hikers, but they fixed it up so they can drive cattle down, an’ even a wagon if yer take it easy.”

“Mendez fixed it?”

“No; I heerd that Bill Lacy sorter handled that job.  The Mex can’t do nuthin’ but steal.”

“Then Lacy is the go-between?  He sells the cattle?”

“Sure; I s’posed yer knew that.  He ships them east from Bolton Junction, an’ pretends they come from his ranch over on Clear Water.  The Mexicans drive ’em in that way, an’ they’re all branded ’fore they leave the valley.  It’s a cinch.”

The marshal’s eyes brightened; he was gaining the information he most desired.

“And there is no other way to the bottom except along this trail?”

“That’s ’bout all.”

“Well, could Jim and I make it—­say after dark?”

Moore laughed, the reckless boy in him again uppermost.

“Mebbe so; but I reckon ye’d be dead when yer got thar.  Thar’s allers two Mexes on guard when Mendez is in the valley.  He ain’t takin’ no chances o’ gettin’ caught that way.”

“Where are they?”

“Just below the top, whar they kin see out over the desert.  Hell, yer couldn’t get within half a mile an’ not be spotted.  It’s bull luck yer run inter me.”

Brennan and Westcott looked at each other, both uncertain as to the next step.  What were they to do with their prisoner?  And how could they proceed toward effecting the rescue of the helpless girl?  It was a problem not easy to solve, if what Moore told them was true.  The latter shuffled his feet in the sand, lifted his eyes shrewdly, and studied the faces of his captors.  He was figuring his own chance.

“You fellows want ter get down inter the valley?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” and Brennan turned again quickly, “if it can be done.  Of course thar’s only two of us, an’ it would be sort o’ foolish tryin’ ter fight a way through, even ag’in’ Mexicans.  Fifteen ter two is some odds, but ‘tain’t in my nature, or Jim’s here, ter turn round an’ leave that girl in the hands o’ them cusses—­is it, Jim?”

“I never will,” replied Westcott earnestly.  “Not if I have to tackle the whole outfit alone.”

“You won’t never have to do that.  What’s the idea, Moore?”

“Oh, I was just thinkin’,” he answered, still uncertain.  “She’s a good fellow, all right, an’ I wouldn’t mind givin’ her a hand myself, pervidin’ you men do the square thing.  If I show yer a way, what is thar in it fer me?”

Brennan stiffened, his features expressing nothing.

“What do yer mean?  I’m an officer o’ the law?”

“I know it; I ain’t asking yer ter make no promise.  But yer word will go a hell ov a ways if this ever gets in court.