“But where did yer come from?  This yere is Matt Moore’s outfit.”

“From the Shoshone Desert, if you must know.  I’ll tell you the story later.  There’s a wounded man under the canvas there.  Come on, and help me carry him inside.”

Timmons, sputtering but impotent to resist, took hold reluctantly, and the two together bore the helpless Cavendish through the deserted office and up the stairs to the second floor, where he was comfortably settled and a doctor sent for.  The task was sufficiently strenuous to require all the breath Timmons possessed, and he managed to repress his eager curiosity until the wounded man had been attended to.  Once in the hall, however, and the door closed, he could no longer control himself.

“Now see yere, Jim Westcott,” he panted, one hand gripping the stair-rail.  “I’ve got ter know what’s up, afore I throw open this yere hotel to yer free use this-away.  As a gineral thing I ain’t ’round huntin’ trouble—­I reckon yer know that—­but this yere affair beats me.  What was it yer said about Bill Lacy?”

“He’s under arrest, charged with cattle-stealing, abduction, conspiracy, and about everything else on the calendar.  Brennan’s got him, and likewise the evidence to convict.”

“Good Lord!  Is that so!”

“It is; the whole Mendez gang has been wiped out.  Old Mendez has been killed.  The rest of the outfit, including Juan Cateras, are prisoners.”

Timmons’s eyes were fairly popping out of his head, his voice a mere thread of sound.

“Don’t that beat hell!” he managed to articulate.  “Where’s the marshal?”

“Riding herd at a place they call Sunken Valley, about fifty miles south of here.  He and Moore have got ten or twelve Mexicans, and maybe three hundred head of cattle to look after, until I can send somebody out there to help him bring them in.  Now that’s all you need to know, Timmons; but I’ve got a question or two I want to ask you.  Come on back into the office.”

Miss Donovan sat in one of the chairs by the front window waiting.  As they entered she arose to her feet.

Westcott crossed the room and took her hand.

“He’s all right,” he assured her quickly, interpreting the question in her eyes.  “Tired from the trip, of course, but a night’s rest will do wonders.  And now, Timmons,” he turned to the bewildered landlord, “is that man Enright upstairs?”

“The New York lawyer?  No, he got frightened and left.  He skipped out the next day after you fellers got away.  Bill wanted him to go along with him, but he said he was too sick.  Then he claimed to have a telegram callin’ him East, but he never did.  I reckon he must ’ve got cold feet ’bout somethin’—­enyhow he’s gone.”

“And Miss La Rue?”

“Sure; she took the same train,” eager now to divulge all he knew.  “But that ain’t her real name—­it’s a kind o’ long name, an’ begins with C. I saw it in a letter she left up-stairs, but I couldn’t make it all out.  She’s married.”