Polly Street went up to her room after leaving Scott but she did not go to bed. Nor did she behave in any way which suggested an alarming amount of headache. Instead, she opened her window and looked out. Her first glance showed Scott pacing scowlingly up and down the narrow veranda. Further down the street she saw Mendoza's car parked in front of its owner's favorite saloon, next door, in fact, to the butcher's, in whose yard hung the remains of the steer--an unhappy evidence of the truth of the adage that in the midst of life we are in death. Mendoza was not visible, but it needed no stretch of the imagination to locate him. With a little sigh of satisfaction, Polly withdrew her head and remained a moment in thought; then she ran downstairs again. A cautious peep into the office showed Clara and Hard in conversation with Sam Penhallow. She glided into the dining-room where she found the good-looking Mabel finishing the clearing off of the tables. Polly looked winningly into the tall girl's eyes. "I want awfully to speak to your father about something; do you suppose you could get him into the dining-room without anyone's knowing? I want to consult him in his official capacity," she added with dignity. "Oh!" said Mabel, surveying her guest calmly. "Do you mean as the sheriff or as the boss of this hotel? Because if it's that, you can see me. I'm the real boss." "Oh, as the sheriff, of course," replied Polly, hastily. "Anybody could see that you ran this hotel. It's much too well handled to be a man's job." "Well," the tall girl unbent a trifle, "I don't mind telling you that I think so myself. Of course, as a sheriff Papa is all right. You wait here and I'll fetch him and look after the office till you're through with him." In a moment or two Sam Penhallow entered the dining-room, his good-natured face a trifle puzzled. "Mabel said----" he began. Polly smiled. "Yes, isn't she clever at managing things? You see, Mr. Penhallow, it's a case of 'Kind Captain, I've important information.' Won't you sit down?" Sam sat down. "In the first place, one of those Mexicans who had dinner here to-night is Juan Pachuca--the man who held up our mine a few days ago." "What? Why didn't you say so before? I'd have----" "I didn't think quick enough," admitted Polly, "and for another thing I knew that if Mr. Scott saw him there would be trouble. He has reasons for disliking Pachuca--apart from the raid, at least, he thinks he has." Polly blushed in spite of herself. "I get you," responded Penhallow, instantly. "I thought you would. You seem to me like that sort of a man. Now, I want to ask you something; did you ever hear of a Mexican named 'Gasca' who lived around here?" Penhallow, a little mystified, seemed to be thinking. "A Mexican who had an Indian wife and who was murdered?" went on Polly. Much to her disappointment, this minute description did not seem to clear Sam's mind. "You see, that fits so many of them," he said, apologetically.