Bob took the suggestion and sauntered over toward the bar. As he approached, Reedy turned around and nodded blinkingly at him. "Say," Reedy leaned his elbows on the bar and spoke in a propitiatory tone, "I'sh sorry you went off in such a huff. Right good fello', I understand. If you'd asked me, I'd saved you lot of trouble and money on that lease." Reedy stopped to hiccough. "Even now, take your lease off your hands at half what it cost." "So?" Bob smiled sarcastically. "Well, hell," Reedy was nettled at the lack of appreciation of his generosity, "that's a good deal better than nothing." "My lease is not on the market," Bob replied, dryly. "Now look here!" Reedy half closed his plump eyes and nodded knowingly. "'Course you are goin' to sell--I got to have four more ranches to fill out my farm--and when I want 'em I get 'em, see? As Davy Crockett said to the coon, 'Better come on down before I shoot, and save powder.'" "Shoot," said Bob, contemptuously. "Now look here," Reedy lurched still closer to Bob, and put his plump fingers down on the bar as though holding something under his hand; "I got unlimited capital back of me--million dollars--two million--all I want. That's on 'Merican side--on this side--I got pull. See? Fifty ways I can squelch you--just like that." He squeezed his plump, soft hand together as though crushing a soft-shelled egg. "You are drunk," Bob said, disgustedly, "and talking through a sieve." He moved away from him and sauntered round the hall. At one of the tables he came upon Rodriguez, the man he was looking for. He looked more Spanish than Mexican, had a moustache but did not curl it, a thin face and soft brown eyes, and the pensive look of a poet who is also a philosopher. "Well?" Bob questioned in an undertone as they drifted outside of the gambling hall and stood in the shadows beyond the light of the open doors. "Did you learn anything?" Rodriguez nodded. "They have two, three plans to make you get out. Senor Madrigal is--what you call hem?--detec--detectave in Mexico. Ver' bad man. He work for Senor Jenkins on the side." Bob left his Mexican friend. He stood in the shadow of the great gambling hall for a moment, pulled in opposite directions by two desires. He remembered a red spot on Reedy Jenkins' cheek just under his left eye that he wanted to hit awfully bad. He could go back and smash him one that would knock him clear across the bar. On the other hand, he wanted to get on his horse and ride out into the silence and darkness of the desert and think. After all, smashing that red spot on Reedy's cheek would not save his ranch. He turned quickly down the street to where his horse was hitched. CHAPTER XI One of the hardest layers of civilization for a woman to throw off is the cook stove. She can tear up her fashion plates, dodge women's clubs, drop her books, forsake cosmetics and teas, and yet be fairly happy. But to the last extremity she clings to her cook stove.