A Mexican was straddling Moffatt, one hand about his throat. The outlaw was vainly endeavoring to break the grip with his fingers. The knife was raised for a second blow, when the native heard the crunch of the sheriff's boot and turned his head. His expression of raging hate changed to a look of such absolute amazement that it was almost ludicrous. Next instant he released Moffatt and scurried away like a cottontail, zigzagging among the trees as he headed for the Jug. It would have been an easy matter to bring him down, and for the fraction of a second Johnson was so inclined. Then: "Pshaw, I ain't looking for him," he said, and hurried to Moffatt's side. "Hello," said Steve weakly, opening his eyes. "Are you hurt, Moffatt? Hurt bad?" "Pretty bad, I reckon," said the injured man. "He done got me here." He placed a hand over his right breast. There was a knife wound high up, which was bleeding generously, but not enough to cause alarm. Johnson unfastened the shirt and inspected the cut. It was deep, but the Mexican's thrust had been diverted and had gone high, toward the shoulder. Lafe did not think that the lung had been pierced or that there was internal hemorrhage. He removed the bandage from his ankle, found some water dripping from crevices in the cliff, bathed and bound the wound. Said Moffatt: "Gee, I wish I had a drink." Johnson caught some in his hat, and cooled his face when he had drunk. The outlaw seemed grateful. "You ain't got anything to eat, have you?" he inquired. "I reckon you're feeling better? What'd you like? A steak with onions?" Moffatt grinned, made a wry face and sat up painfully. "Where did that fool Mexican go to?" he asked. Lafe pointed to the Jug and opined that they would have to leave him there. The Jug was too formidable for assault, unless they had urgent need of him. "Pshaw!" exclaimed Moffatt. "He ain't there now. I'll bet he's sneaked out the back way and is drifting right now. His gun went wrong, or it's like he'd have got me. No, sir, ol' Jiminez has beat it while the going was good, you can bet." "Jiminez?" the sheriff repeated. "Pablo Jiminez?" "His brother," answered Moffatt, and became sullen. Johnson said nothing more just then. All was now explained. The Mexican had cut across country over unfrequented trails to intercept Moffatt at the Jug, as soon as he had learned of the killing of his brother. They had been companions on more than one ranch raid for horses, and he had guessed where Moffatt would seek refuge. "Whose horse was shot first?" Lafe demanded, after an interval of silence, during which he gathered wood for a fire. "Mine. Then I got his before he could shoot again. And when he done fell, he smashed his ol' gun. That was sure some luck." "But why," Johnson said, much amazed, "why didn't you get him then? It ought to have been easy." "No kattridges," said Moffatt briefly.