“Who the hell are you?”

“That doesn’t make much difference, does it, as long as I’ve got the drop?” asked the other genially.  “But, if you must know to be happy—­I’m the marshal o’ Haskell.  Go easy, boy; you’ve seen me shoot afore this, an’ I was born back in Texas with a weapon in each hand.  Climb down off’n that hoss.”

Lacy did so, his hands above his head, cursing angrily.

“What kind of a low-down trick is this, Brennan?” he snapped, glaring through the darkness at the face of his captor.  “What’s become of Pasqual Mendez?  Ain’t his outfit yere?”

“His outfit’s here all right, dead an’ alive,” and Brennan chuckled cheerfully, “but not being no gospel sharp I can’t just say whar ol’ Mendez is.  What’s left ov his body is in thet cabin yonder, so full o’ buckshot it ought ter weigh a ton.”

“Dead?”

“As a door nail, if yer ask me.  It was some nice ov yer ter come ridin’ long here ter-night, Lacy.  It sorter helps me ter make a good, decent clean-up ov this whole measly outfit.  I reckon I’ll stow yer away, along with them others.  Mosey up them steps there, an’ don’t take no chances lookin’ back.”

“I’ll get you for this, Brennan.”

“Not if the Circuit Court ain’t gone out o’ business, you won’t.  I’ve got yer cinched an’ hog tied—­here now; get in thar.”

He opened the door just wide enough for Lacy to pass, holding it with one hand, his revolver ready and eager in the other.

A single lamp lit the room dingily, revealing the Mexicans bunched on the farther side, a number of them lying down.  Moore sat on a stool beside the door, a rifle in the hollow of his arm.  He rose up as the door opened, and grinned at sight of Lacy’s face.

“Well, I’ll be dinged,” he said.  “What have we got here?”

Brennan thrust his new prisoner forward.

“Another one of yer ol’ pals, Matt.  You two ought ter have a lot ter talk over, an’ thar’s six hours yet till daylight.”

The little marshal drew back, and closed the door.  He heard the echo of an oath, or two, within as he turned the key in the lock.  Then he straightened up and laughed, slapping his knee with his hand.

“Well,” he said at last, soberly.  “I reckon my place will be about yere till sun-up; thar might be some more critters like that gallivantin’ round in these parts—­I hope Matt’s enjoyin’ himself.”

CHAPTER XXXIII:  THE REAL MR. CAVENDISH

It was a hard, slow journey back across the desert.  Moore’s team and wagon were requisitioned for the purpose, but Matt himself remained behind to help Brennan with the prisoners and cattle, until the party returning to Haskell could send them help.