His companion's taciturnity was always a source of irritation to the tall, lanky cow-puncher, and he lapsed into a sulky silence for a time, chewing the ever-present toothpick in his mouth, from which he derived his name. "Yuh mean maybe the gents they calls the Lava Gang is makin' another raid, and they may be still hangin' about?" Toothpick asked. "Yep." "Why don't yuh open yuhr mouth and let the words come out, instead of choking yuhrself on 'em, and makin' me explain to myself what yuh aim to say?" Toothpick asked scornfully. Dutchy grunted, drew his rifle out of the boot beneath his saddle flap and balanced it across the pommel. "If we're goin' to war, I'm sure plenty glad to have yuh along," Toothpick grumbled as he followed the example of his companion; "but yuh sure ain't no gent to relieve the tedium of existence with light chatter." Accustomed as they were to the grim tragedies of the border, they were totally unprepared to find what they did close to the burning house. There was nothing left save smoldering rafters and bare adobe walls. Toothpick swung from his horse and quickly extinguished some brush that had been fired by a spark. Then he gave an exclamation and cried sharply: "Hey, Dutchy, come here!" Dutchy was a grizzled two-gun fighter who, rumor said, had once ridden "the long trail." He had lived close to the border all his life, yet he winced when he saw what the white-faced Toothpick pointed out to him. A scant five yards from the doorway of the house, the body of a man lay half concealed in the brush. It was mutilated and scalped. "Apache?" Toothpick queried as he slid a nervous hand to the hammer of his rifle and cast apprehensive glances into the darkness. "Maybe so," Dutchy said shortly. "Let's see if we can find any others." After a short search they discovered the body of a woman near a small shed. Powder marks on the back of her head told the story. She had been murdered deliberately--shot at close range. "Skunks--downed a woman!" Toothpick swore. "Cussin' never hurt no one," Dutchy growled. He wandered to the rear of the ruined house and a little later called: "Here's a gent what's got breath in him." Toothpick hastened to the side of Dutchy and found him kneeling beside a middle-aged man who was unconscious. The two cow-punchers dressed his wound. After a time the man's eyelids fluttered open and he stared at them with frightened eyes. "We're friends, old-timer," Toothpick told him. The man sighed with relief. "Set fire to house to bring help," the man whispered. "Well, it come," Toothpick soothed as he forced a little water between the man's parched lips. "Who done this?" The man's eyes flashed and he raised himself on his elbow. "_Le fils du Diable à Cheval--oui_--I knew him----" The man sank back and grew silent. Toothpick gave him more water. "Who's the gent yuh knew?" he asked. "_Le Diable à Cheval._" The man's voice was nothing but a faint whisper. He sighed and closed his eyes.