This was doing pretty well for the baron. He might have got away from the Three-ply men if McGowan hadn’t taken a hand in the set-to. Reaching out swiftly, the mine-owner twined his hands in the baron’s collar and dragged him off his horse; then, falling on him where he lay on the ground, McGowan held the luckless Dutchman in that position. “Look into the saddle-bag, Bern,” cried McGowan. The super, whose head was still ringing from the effects of the blow on the ear, had regained his feet and was saying things. Watched by McGowan, he unbuckled the straps of the saddle-bag, pushed in his hand, and drew out--the bar of yellow bullion. “Ah!” cried McGowan, his voice like the snap of a whip, “the fellow’s a scoundrel, after all!” “You might have known that, McGowan,” scowled Bernritter, “from the fight he put up to keep us from looking into the saddle-bag.” “A rope, Jacobs!” ordered McGowan. “Bedad, we’re headed for Phœnix, and we’ll keep right on to the town and land this thief in the lock-up.” The baron, dazed by the sight of the yellow bar, was unable to say a word. He did not protest, or disavow any evil intentions, for he was so dumfounded he could not speak. His silence, of course, looked like a tacit confession of guilt. The whole cut-and-dried affair had worked out to the baron’s disadvantage and to the benefit of the scheming scoundrels, Bernritter and Jacobs. They had shifted the responsibility of the theft of the cyanid bullion to the Dutchman: And might not McGowan think that he was in league with the red bullion thieves who were believed to be back of the other thefts of bullion? The sharpest criminals are short-sighted as to one or two details, in even their cleverest trickery. Bernritter had overlooked the fact that _possibly_ the Dutchman might be a pard of Buffalo Bill’s; and, if this should prove to be the case, then nothing could keep Buffalo Bill from getting into the game. The baron, properly roped, was tied to his horse and led on across the desert in the direction of Phœnix. He was still silent, but he was doing a lot of thinking. CHAPTER III. A QUEER CASE. “What’s ther feller’s name, Buffler?” “Patrick McGowan.” “Sounds like er bit o’ th’ brogue.” “Not much of the brogue about McGowan. He’s Irish, all right, but not so you could notice it. A fine man, take him by and large, Nick, but he ran out the wrong trail when he came to me.” “What fer sort of a trail was et, Buffler?” “Going it blind on a hunt for red bullion thieves.” “Waugh! Sounds kinder good ter me.” “But it’s sheriff’s work, Nick; plain sleuthing, and nothing in sight for a strong arm. The sheriff gets paid for doing that sort of thing in this county.” “But reds! From ther way yer mouth went off, Buffler, I opined an Injun er two was tangled up in this hyar bag o’ tricks.”