Jenkins' plot was clear now. He had merely been waiting for the most critical time. The next two waterings were the most vital of the whole season. The little squares that form the boll were taking shape. If the cotton did not get water at this time the bolls would fall off instead of setting. Bob walked down the street, on through to the Mexican section of town, thinking. He must do something, but what? It was a sweltering night and people were mostly outdoors. Under the vines in front of a small Mexican house a man played a guitar and a woman hummed an accompaniment. Across the street a little Holiness Mission was holding prayer meeting, and through the open windows an organ and twenty voices wailed out a religious tune. Bob turned and walked back rapidly, and crossed the Mexican line. At the Red Owl he might hear something. It was so hot that even the gamblers were listless to-night. The only stir of excitement was round one roulette wheel. Bob started toward the group, and saw the centre of it was Reedy Jenkins with his hat tipped back, shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled to elbows, playing stacks of silver dollars on the "thirty." Bob leaned against one of the idle tables and talked with the game keeper, a pleasant, friendly young chap. "Wonder what the Mexicans are going to do with so many motor trucks?" the gamester asked casually. "Motor trucks?" Bob repeated. "Yes, they unloaded a whole string of them over here to-day. One of the boys said he counted twenty." As Bob left the gambling hall Reedy was still playing the roulette wheel at twenty dollars a throw. Rogeen got his car and started south. He would see for himself if there was any basis for Jenkins' claim that immediate work must be done on the water system. It was late and there were no lights at any of the little ranch shacks over the fields. Chandler's place was dark like the rest. They were sleeping. Their notice would not come until to-morrow or next day. He would not wake them. Anyway to-night he had forgotten his fiddle, but he grimly remembered his gun. He drove through the Red Butte Ranch without stopping. He could scarcely bear even to look to the right or left at those long rich rows of dark green cotton. Turning off the main road south toward the Dillenbeck canal, something unusual stirred in Bob's consciousness. At first he could not think what was the matter; but directly he got it--the car was running differently. This road across a patch of the desert was usually so bumpy one had to hold himself down. To-night the car ran smoothly. The road had been worked--was being worked now--for a quarter of a mile ahead he heard an engine and made out some sort of road-dragging outfit.