“Look here, stranger,” he remarked, with quiet emphasis, “we’re after that cow-lifter, an’ we mean to get him.  Savvy?”

The monk did not appear to hear him, so he tried another tack. “Habla Espanola?” he asked, experimentally.

“You have ridden far?” replied the monk in perfect English.

“All the way from the Bend,” Red replied, relieved.  “We’re after Jerry Brown.  He tried to kill Johnny, an’ near made good.  An’ I reckon we’ve treed him, judging from the tracks.”

“And if you capture him?”

“He won’t have no more use for no side pocket shooting.”

“I see; you will kill him.”

“Shore’s it’s wet outside.”

“I’m afraid you are doomed to disappointment.”

“Ya-as?” asked Red with a rising inflection.

“You will not want him now,” replied the monk.

Red laughed sarcastically and Hopalong smiled.

“There ain’t a-going to be no argument about it.  Trot him out,” ordered Red, grimly.

The monk turned to Hopalong.  “Do you, too, want him?”

Hopalong nodded.

“My friends, he is safe from your punishment.”

Red wheeled instantly and ran outside, returning in a few moments, smiling triumphantly.  “There are tracks coming in, but there ain’t none going away.  He’s here.  If you don’t lead us to him we’ll shore have to rummage around an’ poke him out for ourselves:  which is it?”

“You are right—­he is here, and he is not here.”

“We’re waiting,” Red replied, grinning.

“When I tell you that you will not want him, do you still insist on seeing him?”

“We’ll see him, an’ we’ll want him, too.”

As the rain poured down again the sound of approaching horses was heard, and Hopalong ran to the door in time to see Buck Peters swing off his mount and step forward to enter the building.  Hopalong stopped him and briefly outlined the situation, begging him to keep the men outside.  The monk met his return with a grateful smile and, stepping forward, opened the chapel door, saying, “Follow me.”

The unpretentious chapel was small and nearly dark, for the usual dimness was increased by the lowering clouds outside.  The deep, narrow window openings, fitted with stained glass, ran almost to the rough-hewn rafters supporting the steep-pitched roof, upon which the heavy rain beat again with a sound like that of distant drums.  Gusts of rain and the water from the roof beat against the south windows, while the wailing wind played its mournful cadences about the eaves, and the stanch timbers added their creaking notes to swell the dirge-like chorus.