“Sure not! But one of these Indians around here who knows the lay of the house--somebody who savvyed, for instance, about those old knives on your wall--a hundred silver pesos from Urgo’s pocket--” Grant’s mind was in no state to analyze subtleties of villainy. “I can’t see what Urgo could possibly gain by killing Don Padraic unless there’s a great deal behind his relations with Benicia’s father you and I don’t know.” The fat shape of ’Cepcion waddled down the nearby arcade in the direction of the room wherein Benicia had locked herself. Bim’s eyes idly followed her as he pressed his argument: “Maybe so--maybe not. But figger the thing thisaway: Urgo’s dead set on marryin’ this high-spirited señorita--if you’ll excuse me trompin’ on a tender subject, old hoss--an’ he reckons they’s two folks who don’t encourage those ideas to the limit--her father and yourself. Yourself he tries to get on suspicion and because you riled him on the train like you say. Now he does for the father an’ counts he has the girl for the taking, she having no kith or kin to come up in support, as you might say.” The dawn reddened and still the two men in the patio fruitlessly pursued speculation. A sudden step crunched the gravel behind them. Both leaped at the sound, so taut were their nerves. They turned to see Benicia standing in the half light with the misty banks of geraniums for a background. With her were the giant Papago Quelele and two other Indians. They carried loops of hair ropes. “Señor Hickman”--the girl’s voice was deadly cold--“Señor Hickman, my servant ’Cepcion has just brought to me the dagger she found in your room. The dagger is stained with my father’s blood, señor. There are prints of fingers on the haft of that dagger, Señor Hickman.” Grant caught the poisonous edge of hatred in the voice, read the bitter accusation in her eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Benicia checked him. “I saw you leave those prints of my father’s blood on the door of his chamber, señor. Before my very eyes, señor! Just now when ’Cepcion brings me the dagger she finds in your room I compare the print of fingers on its haft with the print on the door. They are the same. What have you to say, Señor Hickman?” “Say!” Bim Bagley’s voice snapped like a whip lash. “Are you accusing Grant Hickman here of murder?” Benicia never even cast a glance at him. She repeated: “What have you to say to this, Señor Hickman?” Grant answered levelly, “Enough already has been said, Señorita O’Donoju.” Benicia signalled to Quelele and he advanced with the ropes. CHAPTER XVII THE ORDEAL With the lithe spring of a cat Bim put himself between Grant and the advancing Indian. His face had gone dead white and his eyes were coals blown upon by the wind of anger. “None of that! Get back there--you!” Bim’s voice was scarcely audible but his pose of furious battling on the hair-trigger of release was sufficiently vocal to awe the Papago giant into a backward stumble. Then to Benicia: