“That's so, Ross, right,” chorused the crowd, “We've been running the old man all night.” “Then how comes your name on this paper?” “O murdher! will ye listen to him, boys? As if every felly that owed me a whisky bill didn't come to me and say, 'Ah, Misther Roscommon,' or 'Moike,' as the case moight be, sure it's an illigant sthrike I've made this day, and it's meself that has put down your name as an original locater, and yer fortune's made, Mr. Roscommon, and will yer fill me up another quart for the good luck betune you and me. Ah, but ask Jack Brown over yar if it isn't sick that I am of his original locations.” The laugh that followed this speech, and its practical application, convinced the party that they had blundered, that they could obtain no clue to the real culprits here, and that any attempt by threats would meet violent opposition. Nevertheless the Doctor was persistent: “When did you see these men last?” “When did I see them, is it? Bedad, what with sarvin up the liquor and keeping me counters dry and swate, I never see them at all.” “That's so, Ross,” chorused the crowd again, to whom the whole proceeding was delightfully farcical. “Then I can tell you, gentlemen,” said the Doctor, stiffly, “that they were in Monterey last night, that they did not return on that trail this morning, and that they must have passed here at daybreak.” With these words, which the Doctor regretted as soon as delivered, the party rode away. Mr. Roscommon resumed his service and counter wiping. But late that night, when the bar was closed and the last loiterer was summarily ejected, Mr. Roscommon, in the conjugal privacy of his chamber, produced a legal-looking paper. “Read it, Maggie, darlint, for it's meself never had the larning nor the parts.” Mistress Roscommon took the paper: “Shure, it's law papers, making over some property to yis. O Moike! ye havn't been spekilating!” “Whist! and fwhotz that durty gray paper wid the sales and flourishes?” “Faix, it bothers me intoirely. Shure it oin't in English.” “Whist! Maggie, it's a Spanish grant!” “A Spanish grant? O Moike, and what did ye giv for it?” Mr. Roscommon laid his finger beside his nose and said softly, “Whishky!” PART II.--IN THE COURTS CHAPTER VI HOW A GRANT WAS GOT FOR IT