Sandridge saddled his horse and rode to the Lone Wolf Crossing. He tied his big dun in a clump of brush on the arroyo, took his Winchester from its scabbard, and carefully approached the Perez _jacal_. There was only the half of a high moon drifted over by ragged, milk-white gulf clouds. The wagon-shed was an excellent place for ambush; and the ranger got inside it safely. In the black shadow of the brush shelter in front of the _jacal_ he could see a horse tied and hear him impatiently pawing the hard-trodden earth. He waited almost an hour before two figures came out of the _jacal_. One, in man’s clothes, quickly mounted the horse and galloped past the wagon-shed toward the crossing and village. And then the other figure, in skirt, waist, and mantilla over its head, stepped out into the faint moonlight, gazing after the rider. Sandridge thought he would take his chance then before Tonia rode back. He fancied she might not care to see it. “Throw up your hands,” he ordered loudly, stepping out of the wagon-shed with his Winchester at his shoulder. There was a quick turn of the figure, but no movement to obey, so the ranger pumped in the bullets—one—two—three—and then twice more; for you never could be too sure of bringing down the Cisco Kid. There was no danger of missing at ten paces, even in that half moonlight. The old ancestor, asleep on his blanket, was awakened by the shots. Listening further, he heard a great cry from some man in mortal distress or anguish, and rose up grumbling at the disturbing ways of moderns. The tall, red ghost of a man burst into the _jacal_, reaching one hand, shaking like a _tule_ reed, for the lantern hanging on its nail. The other spread a letter on the table. “Look at this letter, Perez,” cried the man. “Who wrote it?” “_Ah, Dios!_ it is Señor Sandridge,” mumbled the old man, approaching. “_Pues, señor_, that letter was written by ‘_El Chivato_,’ as he is called—by the man of Tonia. They say he is a bad man; I do not know. While Tonia slept he wrote the letter and sent it by this old hand of mine to Domingo Sales to be brought to you. Is there anything wrong in the letter? I am very old; and I did not know. _Valgame Dios!_ it is a very foolish world; and there is nothing in the house to drink— nothing to drink.” Just then all that Sandridge could think of to do was to go outside and throw himself face downward in the dust by the side of his humming-bird, of whom not a feather fluttered. He was not a _caballero_ by instinct, and he could not understand the niceties of revenge. A mile away the rider who had ridden past the wagon-shed struck up a harsh, untuneful song, the words of which began: Don’t you monkey with my Lulu girl Or I’ll tell you what I’ll do— XII THE SPHINX APPLE