No names would be mentioned, yet even if Colonel Starbottle recognized his own adventure, he could not possibly object to this interpretation of it.  The editor had found that few people objected to be the hero of a ghost story, or the favored witness of a spiritual manifestation.  Nor could Richards find fault with this view of his own experience, hitherto kept a secret, so long as it did not refer to his relations with the fair Cota.  Summoning him at once to his sanctum, he briefly repeated the story he had just heard, and his purpose of using it.  To his surprise, Richards’s face assumed a seriousness and anxiety equal to Enriquez’s own.

“It’s a good story, Mr. Grey,” he said awkwardly, “and I ain’t sayin’ it ain’t mighty good newspaper stuff, but it won’t do now, for the whole mystery’s up and the assailant found.”

“Found!  When?  Why didn’t you tell me before?” exclaimed Grey, in astonishment.

“I didn’t reckon ye were so keen on it,” said Richards embarrassedly, “and—­and—­it wasn’t my own secret altogether.”

“Go on,” said the editor impatiently.

“Well,” said Richards slowly and doggedly, “ye see there was a fool that was sweet on Cota, and he allowed himself to be bedeviled by her to ride her cursed pink and yaller mustang.  Naturally the beast bolted at once, but he managed to hang on by the mane for half a mile or so, when it took to buck-jumpin’.  The first ‘buck’ threw him clean into the road, but didn’t stun him, yet when he tried to rise, the first thing he knowed he was grabbed from behind and half choked by somebody.  He was held so tight that he couldn’t turn, but he managed to get out his revolver and fire two shots under his arm.  The grip held on for a minute, and then loosened, and the somethin’ slumped down on top o’ him, but he managed to work himself around.  And then—­what do you think he saw?—­why, that thar hoss! with two bullet holes in his neck, lyin’ beside him, but still grippin’ his coat collar and neck-handkercher in his teeth!  Yes, sir! the rough that attacked Colonel Starbottle, the villain that took me behind when I was leanin’ agin that cursed fence, was that same God-forsaken, hell-invented pinto hoss!”

In a flash of recollection the editor remembered his own experience, and the singular scuffle outside the stable door of the fonda.  Undoubtedly Cota had saved him from a similar attack.

“But why not tell this story with the other?” said the editor, returning to his first idea.  “It’s tremendously interesting.”

“It won’t do,” said Richards, with dogged resolution.

“Why?”

“Because, Mr. Grey—­that fool was myself!”

“You!  Again attacked!”

“Yes,” said Richards, with a darkening face.  “Again attacked, and by the same hoss!  Cota’s hoss!  Whether Cota was or was not knowin’ its tricks, she was actually furious at me for killin’ it—­and it’s all over ’twixt me and her.”