fight before the court.'
Nancy Derwent was not so hardened. She was look- ing with sympathetic interest at Joya Trevinas and at Littlefield alternately. The deputy repeated the dis- trict attorney's words to the girl. She spoke a sentence or two in a low voice, pulled her shawl closely about her face, and left the room.
'What did she say then?' asked the district attorney.
'Nothing special,' said the deputy. 'She said: 'If the life of the one' -- let's see how it went -- 'Si la vida de ella a quien tu amas -- if the life of the girl you love is ever in danger, remember Rafael Ortiz.''
Kilpatrick strolled out through the corridor in the direction of the marshal's office.
'Can't you do anything for them, Bob?' asked Nancy. 'It's such a little thing -- just one counterfeit dollar -- to ruin the happiness of two lives! She was in danger of death, and he did it to save her. Doesn't the law know the feeling of pity?'
'It hasn't a place in jurisprudence, Nan,' said Little- field, 'especially in re the district attorney's duty. I'll promise you that the prosecution will not be vindictive; but the man is as good as convicted when the case is called. Witnesses will swear to his passing the bad dollar which I have in my pocket at this moment as 'Exhibit A.' There are no Mexicans on the jury, and it will vote Mr. Greaser guilty without leaving the box.'
The plover-shooting was fine that afternoon, and in the excitement of the sport the case of Rafael and the grief of Joya Trevinas was forgotten. The district attor- ney and Nancy Derwent drove out from the town three miles along a smooth, grassy road, and then struck across a rolling prairie toward a heavy line of timber on Piedra Creek. Beyond this creek lay Long Prairie, the favourite haunt of the plover. As they were nearing the creek they heard the galloping of a horse to their right, and saw a man with black hair and a swarthy face riding toward the woods at a tangent, as if he had come up behind them.
'I've seen that fellow somewhere,' said Littlefield, who had a memory for faces, 'but I can't exactly place him. Some ranchman, I suppose, taking a short cut home.'
They spent an hour on Long Prairie, shooting from the buckboard. Nancy Derwent, an active, outdoor Western girl, was pleased with her twelve-bore. She had bagged within two brace of her companion's score.
They started homeward at a gentle trot. When within a hundred yards of Piedra Creek a man rode out of the timber directly toward them.
'It looks like the man we saw coming over,' remarked Miss Derwent.
As the distance between them lessened, the district attorney suddenly pulled up his team sharply, with his eyes fixed upon the advancing horseman. That individ- ual had drawn a Winchester from its scabbard on his saddle and thrown it over his arm.
'Now I know you, Mexico Sam!' muttered Littlefield to himself. 'It was you who shook your rattles in that gentle epistle.'
Mexico Sam did not leave things long in doubt. He had a nice eye in all matters relating to firearms, so when he was within good rifle range, but outside of danger from No. 8 shot, he threw up his Winchester and opened fire upon the occupants of the buckboard.
The first shot cracked the back of the seat within the two-inch space between the shoulders of Littlefield and Miss Derwent. The next went through the dashboard and Littlefield's trouser leg.
The district attorney hustled Nancy out of the buck- board to the ground. She was a little pale, but asked no questions. She had the frontier instinct that accepts conditions in an emergency without superfluous argument. They kept their guns in hand, and Littlefield hastily gathered some handfuls of cartridges from the pasteboard box on the seat and crowded them into his pockets
'Keep behind the horses, Nan,' he commanded. 'That fellow is a ruffian I sent to prison once. He's trying to get even. He knows our shot won't hurt him at that distance.'
'All right, Bob,' said Nancy steadily. 'I'm not afraid. But you come close, too. Whoa, Bess; stand still, now!'
She stroked Bess's mane. Littlefield stood with his gun ready, praying that the desperado would come within range.
But Mexico Sam was playing his vendetta along safe lines. He was a bird of different feather from the plover. His accurate eye drew an imaginary line of circumference around the area of danger from bird-shot, and upon this line lie rode. His horse wheeled to the right, and as his victims rounded to the safe side of their equine breast- work he sent a ball through the district attorney's hat. Once he miscalculated in making a detour, and over- stepped Ms margin. Littlefield's gun flashed, and Mexico Sam ducked his head to the harmless patter of the shot. A few of them stung his horse, which pranced promptly back to the safety line.
The desperado fired again. A little cry came from Nancy Derwent. Littlefield whirled, with blazing eyes, and saw the blood trickling down her cheek.
'I'm not hurt, Bob -- only a splinter struck me. I think he hit one of the wheel-spokes.'
'Lord!' groaned Littlefield. 'If I only had a charge of buckshot!'
The ruffian got his horse still, and took careful aim. Fly gave a snort and fell in the harness, struck in the neck. Bess, now disabused of the idea that plover were being fired at, broke her traces and galloped wildly away -- Mexican Sam sent a ball neatly through the fulness of Nancy Derwent's shooting jacket.
'Lie down -- lie down!' snapped Littlefield. 'close to the horse -- flat on the ground -- so.' He almost threw her upon the grass against the back of the recum- bent Fly. Oddly enough, at that moment the words of the Mexican girl returned to his mind:
'If the life of the girl you love is ever in danger, remem- ber Rafael Ortiz.'
Littlefield uttered an exclamation.
'Open fire on him, Nan, across the horse's back. Fire as fast as you can! You can't hurt him, but keep him dodging shot for one minute while I try to work a little scheme.'
Nancy gave a quick glance at Littlefield, and saw him take out his pocket-knife and open it. Then she turned her face to obey orders, keeping up a rapid fire at the enemy.
