“Look here,” he broke in, “if I’ve been following the plot of this yere dime novel correctly, it’s plumb easy.  Just catch Jud—­Jud—­you know, the editor of the Cochise Branding Iron, and get him to telegraph a piece to the other papers that Artie Brower, celebrated jockey et ceterer, has met a violent death at Hooper’s ranch, details as yet unknown.  That’s the catch-word, as I savey it.  When this yere third party sees that, he goes and records the paper, and there you are!”

Windy leaned back dramatically and looked exceedingly pleased with himself.

“Yes, that’s it,” approved Buck, briefly, which disappointed Windy, who was looking for high encomium.

At this moment a messenger came in from the firing party to report that apparently all opposition had ceased.  At least there had been for some time no shooting from the direction of the water troughs; a fact concealed from us by the thickness of the ranch walls.  Buck Johnson immediately went out to confer with Watkins.

“I kind of think we’ve got ’em all,” was the latter’s opinion.  “We haven’t had a sound out of ’em for a half hour.  It may be a trick, of course.”

“Sure they haven’t slipped by you?” suggested the senor.

“Pretty certain.  We’ve got a close circle.”

“Well, I wouldn’t take chances in the dark.  Just lay low ’till morning.”

We returned to the ranch house where, after a little further discussion, I bedded down and immediately fell into a deep sleep.  This was more and longer continued excitement than I was used to.

I was afoot with the first stirrings of dawn, you may be sure, and out to join the party that moved with infinite precaution on the water troughs as soon as it was light enough to see clearly.  We found them riddled with bullets and the water all run out.  Gleaming brass cartridges scattered, catching the first rays of the sun, attested the vigour of the defence.  Four bodies lay huddled on the ground under the partial shelter of the troughs.  I saw Ramon, his face frowning and sinister even in death, his right hand still grasping tenaciously the stock of his Winchester; and Andreas flat on his face; and two others whom I did not recognize.  Ramon had been hit at least four times.  But of Hooper himself was no hide nor hair!  So certain had we been that he had escaped to this spot with his familiars that we were completely taken aback at his absence.

“We got just about as much sense as a bunch of sheepmen!” cried Buck Johnson, exasperated.  “He’s probably been hiding out somewhere about the place.  God knows where he is by now!”

But just as we were about to return to the ranch house we were arrested by a shout from one of the cowboys who had been projecting around the neighbourhood.  He came running to us.  In his hand he held a blade of sacatone on which he pointed out a single dark spot about the size of the head of a pin.  Buck seized it and examined it closely.