The morning passed without another shot being fired. The sun, uncomfortably warm for October, began searching the lower cañon and finally drove the posse into the shadow of a ledge which cut them off from Johnny’s vision. Charlie Paul and the boy dozed in turn as the afternoon wore on. Molly, stoical now, boiled coffee and fried bacon for them. They knew they were closely watched. The westering sun, glinting on polished rifle barrels, betrayed the stalkers. Evening came on, and with it the acrid smell of burning sagebrush as the posse prepared its supper. The first thrill of the man hunt had worn off, and Kent’s men were bad-tempered. Madeiras was there, stretched out upon the ground, half asleep. Gallup had been studying him for some time when the Basque, feeling the man’s eyes on him, sat up and stared insolently at the coroner. “Guess you ain’t sorry you’re down here,” Aaron growled. “You bat my life on that,” Tony answered with a grin. “We catch those fellow pretty soon.” “Catch ’em? Who wants to catch ’em? If Roddy had any guts he’d march up there and shoot ’em down. Johnny Dice ain’t worth a cent to me alive.” “He mak’ lot of trouble, heem.” “You said it, Madeiras! He ain’t licked till he’s in the ground.” “Johnny ain’t worth a cent to you alive; how much he worth daid, _señor_?” Aaron’s head came up at that and he studied the Basque’s face without answering. Then: “What you drivin’ at?” “Mebbe man get up those rocks in back of heem, eh?” “You mean you?” “Mebbe me,” Tony muttered. “You show him to me, dead, and there’ll be plenty _dinero_ for you, Madeiras.” “Perhaps so, I go to jail, too.” “Not a chance. Roddy’s sworn you in. If that idiot resists arrest, blow his head off and the law’ll back you up.” Tony did not appear to view the prospect with any degree of faith. “Law no good for Basque,” he stated. “Plenty Basque in jail.” “Not if I’m for you,” argued Gallup. “How I know you be for me?” “I’m for you if you mean business. Why, here”—and Aaron drew from his pocket a buckskin bag, and undoing the draw-string, held the purse out to the Basque—“run your fingers through that! All gold, all twenties. Five hundred. It’s yours if you go through with this.” Tony sent his fingers deep into the bag. A crafty light came into Gallup’s eyes as the man felt the precious metal. Tony’s face was working strangely. The coroner thought he read greed—success for himself in it. But the Basque’s fingers were not caressing the gold pieces. They were searching for something more precious than money. For weeks he had been yearning to put his fingers in that very purse. Why? A child’s whim. At least the reasoning behind the desire was no more intelligent or logical than a child’s. The swarthy-faced one’s teeth gleamed as he touched that mysterious thing for which he searched. A thrill passed through his arm. He was holding the gold snake Crosbie Traynor had worn on his hat band! Reluctantly, Tony withdrew his hand.