This was to be Lacy’s part of the bargain, and he was already too deeply involved in the hellish conspiracy to withdraw.  Enright, with his lawyer-astuteness, had seen to that—­had even got this Western gambler securely into his grip and put on the screws.  The miner, realising now the full situation, or, at least, imagining that he did, smiled grimly and waited in his covert on the hillside for the conspirators to make their next move.  He dare not approach the cabin any closer, or permit his presence to become known, for Moore was kept outside the door on guard.  However, the delay was not a long one, horses being brought up from the near-by corral, and the entire party mounting rode down the trail toward Haskell.  The cabin was left dark and deserted, the mine silent.  Westcott made no effort to follow, feeling assured that no important movement would be attempted that night.

It was late the next morning before he rode into Haskell and, stabling his horse, which bore all the marks of hard riding, proceeded toward the Timmons House.  He had utilised, as best he could, the hours since that cavalcade had departed from La Rosita to put his own affairs in order so that he might feel free to camp on the conspirators’ trail and risk all in an effort to rescue Cavendish.  The night had been a hard one, but Westcott was still totally unconscious of fatigue—­his whole thought centred on his purpose.

Alone he had explored the tunnels in Lacy’s mine, creeping about in the darkness, guided only by the flash of an electric torch, until he thoroughly understood the nature of the work being accomplished.  As soon as dawn came he sought two reliable men in the valley below, and posted them as guards over his own property; but, before he finally rode away, the three brought forth the body of the murdered Mexican and reverently buried it on a secluded spot of the bleak hillside.

Then, convinced that every precaution had been taken, Westcott turned his horse’s head toward Haskell.  As he rode slowly up the street in the bright sunlight his mind reverted to Stella Donovan.  The stern adventures of the night had temporarily driven the girl from his thoughts, but now the memory returned, and her bright, womanly face arose before him, full of allurement.  He seemed to look once more into the wonderful depths of her eyes and to feel the fascination of her smile.  Eager for the greeting, which he felt assured awaited him, he strode through the open door into the office.  The room was vacant, but as he crossed the floor toward the desk the proprietor entered through the opening leading into the barroom beyond.  Timmons had quite evidently been drinking more than usual—­the effect being largely disclosed by loquacity of speech.

“Hello, Jim!” he cried at sight of the other.  “Thought you’d be back, but, damn it, yer too late—­she’s—­she’s gone; almighty pretty girl, too.  I told the boys it was a blame shame fer her ter run off thataway.”