CHAPTER

     I. The bells ring
    II.  The sheriff of San Juan
   III.  A man’s boots
    IV.  At the banker’s home
     V. In the darkness of the patio
    VI.  A ride through the night
   VII.  In the home of cliff-dwellers
  VIII.  Jim Galloway’s game
    IX.  Young page comes to town
     X. A bribe and A threat
    XI.  The fight at la Casa Blanca
   XII.  Wavering in the balance
  XIII.  Concealment
   XIV.  A free man
    XV.  The king’s palace
   XVI.  The Mexican from Mexico
  XVII.  A stack of gold pieces
 XVIII.  Desire outweighs discretion
   XIX.  Deadlock
    XX.  Fluff and black Bill
   XXI.  A crisis
  XXII.  The beginning of the end
 XXIII.  The strong hand of Galloway
  XXIV.  In the open
   XXV.  The battle in the arroyo
  XXVI.  The bells ring

ILLUSTRATIONS

Having come closer he reined in his horse, stared at her a moment in surprised wonderment . . . .  Frontispiece

Then came the second meeting with Jim Galloway

“Come, and I’ll share my secret with you”

On through the bright moonlight came the sheriff’s posse

FOREWORD

THE BELLS

He who has not heard the bells of San Juan has a journey yet to make.  He who has not set foot upon the dusty road which is the one street of San Juan, at times the most silent and deserted of thoroughfares, at other times a mad and turbulent lane between sun-dried adobe walls, may yet learn something of man and his hopes, desires, fears and ruder passions from a pin-point upon the great southwestern map.

The street runs due north and south, pointing like a compass to the flat gray desert in the one direction, and in the other to the broken hills swept up into the San Juan mountains.  At the northern end, that is toward the more inviting mountains, is the old Mission.  To right and left of the whitewashed corridors in a straggling garden of pear-trees and olives and yellow roses are two rude arches made of seasoned cedar.  From the top cross-beam of each hang three bells.

They have their history, these bells of San Juan, and the biggest with its deep, mellow voice, the smallest with its golden chimes, seem to be chanting it when they ring.  Each swinging tongue has its tale to tell, a tale of old Spain, of Spanish galleons and Spanish gentlemen adventurers, of gentle-voiced priests and sombre-eyed Indians, of conquest, revolt, intrigue, and sudden death.  When a baby is born in San Juan, a rarer occurrence than a strong man’s death, the littlest of the bells upon the western arch laughs while it calls to all to hearken; when a man is killed, the angry-toned bell pendant from the eastern arch shouts out the word to go billowing across the stretches of sage and greasewood and gama-grass; if one of the later-day frame buildings bursts into flame, Ignacio Chavez warns the town with a strident clamor, tugging frantically; be it wedding or discovery of gold or returns from the county elections, the bell-ringer cunningly makes the bells talk.