“Well,” continued Ramsay, “it hasn’t been forgotten, my friend. One of my errands here was to remind you of the occurrence. If I were you, I wouldn’t rely too much on the protection of Sidewinder Crowfoot. The theft of horses may be forgotten with the years; but what about that church money you stole, eh?” “I—I’ll pay it back,” stammered Hassayamp, now convinced that the Mormons were on his trail. “You wont get the chance. If I didn’t have other and more important fish to fry, I’d attend to you right now. But I guess you’ll keep until I get back. Then you’ll come along with me.” Hassayamp turned yet whiter. The Southwest has by no means forgotten the days of Mountain Meadow and the avenging angels of Mormon; and while in these more settled times the followers of that faith are certainly guiltless of any ill-doing, there is an heritage of uneasiness that lingers about the very name of Mormon and will not be stilled. So Ramsay strode out to his car, donned goggles and helmet, and went chugging away to get his breakfast at Pinecate Cañon. CHAPTER VIII Sagebrush, who had camped at the entrance of the cañon, listened with hearty approval to Ramsay’s recital of the morning’s events. His roar of laughter echoed back from the rocky walls and went thundering away up toward the mesa. “Durned if I’ve laughed so much since my ol’ woman run off!” he exclaimed. “Shootin’s too good for that coyote Mesquite, anyhow. He’ll run into jail to Meteorite, ’cause he’s wanted there for robbin’ an Injun off the reservation last year. Yessir! That’s how mean that pesky critter is. Done robbed an Injun squaw what had been sellin’ beadwork to tourists on the trains.” “Do you know those men he mentioned as the actual murderers?” queried Ramsay. “Nope. Never heard o’ Cholo Bill—most likely he’s a halfbreed greaser, same’s that cuss Mendoza. Tom Emery’s different. He’s a bad man, real bad. Got out o’ jail in Arizona two year back, murdered a rancher in the White Mountains, and skipped out. I reckon there’s a reward for him.” “All right. You collect all the rewards—what I’m after is scalps.” “That suits me, Perfesser. She goes as she lays. What’s the program?” Ramsay, having finished his breakfast, lighted his pipe and considered. “The thing to do, of course,” he said tentatively, “is to apprise the nearest legal officers of conditions, get the sheriff to work, and round up the gang.” Sagebrush eyed him askance, in no little astonishment. “Is that there your program, then?” “No.” Ramsay’s blue eyes twinkled. “No, it isn’t. I only mentioned it as the proper thing.” “If we all done the proper thing, this would be a hell of a world,” and Sagebrush sighed in relief. “I nominates that we light a shtick out o’ yere, go over to that there Hourglass Cañon, and clean her up. Everybody there is wanted, you betcha!. We don’t need no warrants, nor no officers fussin’ around to see things is done right.”