The marshal of Haskell came out of the bunk-house, and closed the door carefully behind him.  He was rather proud of his night’s work, and felt quite confident that the disarmed Mexicans locked within those strong log walls, and guarded by Moore, with a loaded rifle across his knee, would remain quiet until daylight.  The valley before him was black and silent.  A blaze of light shone out through the broken door and window of the smaller cabin, and he chuckled at remembrance of the last scene he had witnessed there—­the fainting girl lying in Westcott’s arms.  Naturally, and ordinarily, Mr. Brennan was considerable of a cynic, but just now he felt in a far more genial and sympathetic mood.

“Jim’s some man,” he confided to himself, unconsciously speaking aloud.  “An’ the girl’s a nervy little thing—­almighty good lookin’, too.  I reckon it’ll cost me a month’s salary fer a weddin’ present, so maybe the joke’s on me.”  His mind reverted to Mendez.  “Five thousand on the old cuss,” he muttered gloomily, “an’ somebody else got the chance to pot him.  Well, by hooky, whoever it was sure did a good job—­it was thet shotgun cooked his goose, judgin’ from the way his face was peppered.  Five thousand dollars—­oh, hell!”

His eyes followed the outline of the valley, able to distinguish the darker silhouette of the cliffs outstanding against the sky sprinkled with stars.  Far away toward the northern extremity a dull red glow indicated the presence of a small fire.

“Herders,” Brennan soliloquised, his thought instantly shifting.  “Likely to be two, maybe three ov ’em out there; an’ then there’s them two on guard at the head o’ the trail.  I reckon they’re wonderin’ what all this yere shootin’ means; but ’tain’t probable they’ll kick up any fuss yet awhile.  We can handle them all right, if they do—­hullo, there!  What’s comin’ now?”

It was the thud of a horse’s hoofs being ridden rapidly.  Brennan dropped to the ground, and skurried out of the light.  He could perceive nothing of the approaching rider, but whoever the fellow was he made no effort at secrecy.  He drove his horse down the bank and into the stream at a gallop, splashed noisily through the water, and came loping up the nearer incline.  Almost in front of the bunk-house he seemed suddenly struck by the silence and gleam of lights, for he pulled his pony up with a jerk, and sat there, staring about.  To the marshal, crouching against the earth, his revolver drawn, horse and man appeared a grotesque shadow.

“Hullo!” the fellow shouted.  “What’s up?  Did you think this was Christmas Eve?  Hey, there—­Mendez; Cateras.”

The little marshal straightened up, and took a step forward; the light from the cabin window glistened wickedly on the blue steel of his gun barrel.

“Hands up, Bill!” he said quietly, in a voice carrying conviction.  “None of that—­don’t play with me.  Take your left hand an’ unbuckle your belt—­I said the left.  Now drop it into the dirt.”