He drew the band back and displayed the name in indelible pencil. “I lifted it off'n his head with my second shot” the messenger explained. “He was goin' like a streak an' it was snap-shootin', or he'd never 'a got away from me. As it was, I sent him on his way bareheaded, and a bareheaded man is easily traced in the desert. We sent word over to Johannesburg and Randsburg, an' somebody reported seein' a bareheaded man ridin' around the town after dark. We have him headed off at Barstow, and if he can't get through there, he'll have to head up into the Virginia Dale district--and he'll last about a day up there, unless he knows the waterholes. We'll get him, sooner or later, dead or alive. Remember sellin' anybody by that name a hat? It might help if you had an' could describe him. All I could see was his eyes. He was behind a wall when he stuck us up.” “No” said Donna quietly, “I--” She paused. She could not articulate another word. Had the express messenger been watching her instead of the hat, he might have noticed her agitation. Her eyes were closed in sudden, violent pain, and she leaned forward heavily against the counter. “Don't remember him, eh? Well, perhaps he wasn't from San Pasqual. But I thought I'd ask you, anyhow, because if he was from this town it was a good chance he bought this hat from you. Much obliged, just the same,” and gathering up his change the express messenger departed to make room for Harley P. Hennage, who was standing next in line to pay his meal-check. Donna opened her eyes and sighed--a little gasping sob, and turned her quivering face to the gambler. He smiled at her, striving pathetically to do it naturally. Instead, it was a grimace, and there was the look of a thousand devils In his baleful eyes. For an instant their glances met--and there were no secrets between them now. Donna moaned in her wretchedness; she placed her arm on the cash register and bowed her head on it, while the other little trembling hand stole across the counter, seeking for his and the comfort which the strong seem able to impart ito the weak by the mere sense of touch. “Oh, Harley, Harley” she whispered brokenly, “the light's--gone out--of the world--and I can't--cry. I--I--I can't. I can--only--suffer.” Harley P.'s great freckled hand closed over hers and held it fast, while with his other hand he touched her beautiful head with paternal tenderness. “Donnie” he said hoarsely. She did not look up. “I'm sorry you're not feelin' well, Donnie. You're all upset about somethin', an' you ought to go home an' take a good rest. You don't--you don't look well. I noticed it last night. You looked a mite peaked.” “Yes, yes” she whispered, clutching at this straw which he held out to her, “I'm ill. I want to go home--oh, Mr. Hennage, please--take me--home.”