The next morning José Gonzalez was hitching up to drive the men to Adobe Springs when Conrad walked up, leaned carelessly against the wheel, and looked him in the eye. The Mexican returned the gaze unflinchingly but respectfully. "José," said Curtis in a low tone, "you made a mistake about that wolf last night, didn't you? It wasn't the wolf you thought it was when you made ready to shoot, was it?" An amused gleam lighted for an instant José's sombre eyes. "It might have been as you say, Don Curtis," he answered cautiously. "I don't want any might-have-beens; I want to know if you are making war on my brother as well as on me. It's all right about me, but I won't have anything of the sort where he's concerned. I want the truth, José. Is anything of the kind going to happen again?" Gonzalez looked at Conrad squarely as he earnestly replied: "It was a mistake, Don Curtis; I swear to you it was a mistake. Your brother looks much like you, it was your mare, and you had said you would be back from Golden about that hour. I saw it was Don Homer barely in time. After this I shall be more careful." Conrad grinned at the closing sentence, and the Mexican scarcely repressed an answering smile. "Well, I am going away to-day," said Curtis, "to be gone for several days. So it won't be necessary for you to make any mistakes while I'm gone." José looked up in quick alarm. "You are not going to Don Dellmey?" he exclaimed. "He is not the one who wishes your death!" "What do you say, José?" the other demanded, starting forward eagerly. "I swear to you by the Mother of God, Don Curtis," said the Mexican, with voice intense and manner most earnest, "that it is not Señor Baxter who desires your death." "Are you speaking the truth, José?" "I will swear it on the crucifix, Don Curtis!" Conrad gazed at him steadfastly, and the conviction entered his mind that Gonzalez was speaking the truth. A look of puzzled wonder overspread his face. "In the name of God, then, who is it?" he said, half aloud. The Mexican shrugged a shoulder and turned away. "Who can it be?" the manager repeated, to himself, but still loud enough for the other to hear. "It must be Delafield!" he exclaimed. José's ear caught the words, and he listened as his employer went on: "He knows I'm after him, and he's trying to kill me first. If I could only make this _coyote_ greaser tell me who his _patron_ is, I'd know who Delafield is. I'd like to choke it out of you, you son of perdition!" He looked so fiercely at Gonzalez that the Mexican took a threatening step forward. "You needn't worry," Conrad exclaimed contemptuously. "I know you wouldn't tell, even if I choked the life out of you trying to make you peach. It's your _patron_ I'm after." José stooped to hitch the traces, and Curtis broke out impulsively: "I say, José, what makes you do this sort of thing? You're as square as they make 'em in most things; why do you go into this damned rattlesnake business?"