The

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like a gigantic crooked arm. Already he could make out faintly the outlines of the huddled buildings.

      Slipping from his horse, Jack went forward cautiously on foot. He was still a hundred yards from the nearest hut when dogs bayed warning of his approach. He waited, rifle in hand. No sign of human life showed except the two lights shining from as many windows. Flatray counted four other cabins as dark as Egypt.

      Very slowly he crept forward, always with one eye to his retreat. Why did nobody answer the barking of the dogs? Was he being watched all the time? But how could he be, since he was completely cloaked in darkness?

      So at last he came to the nearest cabin, crept to the window, and looked in. A man lay on a bed. His hands and feet were securely tied and a second rope wound round so as to bind him to the bunk.

      Flatray tapped softly on a pane. Instantly the head of the bound man slewed round.

      "Friend?"

      The prisoner asked it ever so gently, but the sheriff heard.

      "Yes."

      "The top part of the window is open. You can crawl over, I reckon."

      Jack climbed on the sill and from it through the window. Almost before he reached the floor his knife was out and he was slashing at the ropes.

      "Better put the light out, pardner," suggested the man he was freeing, and the officer noticed that there was no tremor in the cool, steady voice.

      "That's right. We'd make a fine mark through the window."

      And the light went out.

      "I'm Bucky O'Connor. Who are you?"

      "Jack Flatray."

      They spoke together in whispers. Though both were keyed to the highest pitch of excitement they were as steady as eight-day clocks. O'Connor stretched his limbs, flexing them this way and that, so that he might have perfect control of them. He worked especially over the forearm and fingers of his right arm.

      Flatray handed him a revolver.

      "Whenever you're ready, Lieutenant."

      "All right. It's the cabin next to this."

      They climbed out of the window noiselessly and crept to the next hut. The door was locked, the window closed.

      "We've got to smash the window. Nothing else for it," Flatray whispered.

      "Looks like it. That means we'll have to shoot our way out."

      With the butt of his rifle the sheriff shattered the woodwork of the window, driving the whole frame into the room.

      "What is it?" a frightened voice demanded.

      "Friends, Mr. West. Just a minute."

      It took them scarce longer than that to free him and to get him into the open. A Mexican woman came screaming out of an adjoining cabin.

      The young men caught each an arm of the capitalist and hurried him forward.

      "Hell'll be popping in a minute," Flatray explained.

      But they reached the shelter of the underbrush without a shot having been fired. Nor had a single man appeared to dispute their escape.

      "Looks like most of the family is away from home to-night," Bucky hazarded.

      "Maybe so, but they're liable to drop in any minute. We'll keep covering ground."

      They circled round toward the sheriff's horse. As soon as they reached it West, still stiff from want of circulation in his cramped limbs, was boosted into the saddle.

      "It's going to be a good deal of a guess to find our way out of the Cache," Jack explained. "Even in the daytime it would take a 'Pache, but at night--well, here's hoping the luck's good."

      They found it not so good as they had hoped. For hours they wandered in mesquit, dragged themselves through cactus, crossed washes, and climbed hills.

      "This will never do. We'd better give it up till daylight. We're not getting anywhere," the sheriff suggested.

      They did as he advised. As soon as a faint gray sifted into the sky they were on the move again. But whichever way they climbed it was always to come up against steep cliffs too precipitous to be scaled.

      The ranger officer pointed to a notch beyond a cowbacked hill. "I wouldn't be sure, but it looks like that was the way they brought me into the Cache. I could tell if I were up there. What's the matter with my going ahead and settling the thing? If I'm right I'll come back and let you know."

      Jack looked at West. The railroad man was tired and drawn. He was not used to galloping over the hills all night.

      "All right. We'll be here when you come back," Flatray said, and flung himself on the ground.

      West followed his example.

      It must have been half an hour later that Flatray heard a twig snap under an approaching foot. He had been scanning the valley with his glasses, having given West instructions to keep a lookout in the rear. He swung his head round sharply, and with it his rifle.

      "You're covered, you fool," cried the man who was strutting toward them.

      "Stop there. Not another step," Flatray called sharply.

      The man stopped, his rifle half raised. "We've got you on every side, man." He lifted his voice. "Jeff--Hank--Steve! Let him know you're alive."

      Three guns cracked and kicked up the dust close to the sheriff.

      "What do you want with us?" Flatray asked, sparring for time.

      "Drop your gun. If you don't we'll riddle you both."

      West spoke to Jack promptly. "Do as he says. It's MacQueen."

      Flatray hesitated. He could kill MacQueen probably, but almost certainly he and West would pay the penalty. He reluctantly put his rifle down. "All right. It's your call."

      "Where's O'Connor?"

      The sheriff looked straight at him. "Haven't you enough of us for one gather?"

      The outlaws were closing in on them cautiously.

      "Not without that smart man hunter. Where is he?"

      "I don't know."

      "The devil you don't."

      "We separated early this morning--thought it would give us a better chance for a getaway." Jack gave a sudden exclamation of surprise. "So it was Black MacQueen himself who posed as O'Connor down at Mesa."

      "Guessed it right, my friend. And I'll tell you one thing: you've made the mistake of your life butting into Dead Man's Cache. Your missing friend O'Connor was due to hand in his checks to-day. Since you've taken his place it will be you that crosses the divide, Mr. Sheriff. You'd better tell where he is, for if we don't get Mr. Bucky it will be God help J. Flatray."

      The dapper little villain exuded a smug, complacent cruelty. It was no use for the sheriff to remind himself that such things weren't done nowadays, that the times of Geronimo and the Apache Kid were past forever. Black MacQueen would go the limit in deviltry if he set his mind to it.

      Yet Flatray answered easily, without any perceptible hesitation: "I reckon I'll play my hand and let Bucky play his."

      "Suits me if it does you. Jeff, collect that hardware. Now, while you boys beat up the hills for O'Connor, I'll trail back to camp with these two all-night picnickers."

      CHAPTER IX

      A BARGAIN

      Melissy saw the two prisoners brought in, though she could not tell at that distance who they were. Her watch told her that it was four-thirty. She had slept scarcely at all during the night, but now she lay down on the bed in her clothes.

      The next she knew, Rosario was calling her to get up for breakfast. The girl dressed and followed Rosario to the adjoining cabin. MacQueen was not there, and Melissy ate alone. She was given

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