“In heaven’s name, why?” demanded Breslin.

“My honest but thick-skulled friend, let me put in my oar,” implored the Major.  “Let me show you that Matt Lisner never thought Foy was guilty.  Foy said last night, before the killing, that he was coming up here, didn’t he?”

“Hey, Major—­hold up!” cried Pringle.  But Vorhis was not to be stopped.

“Don’t you see, you doddering imbecile?  If Foy had really killed Dick Marr he might have gone to any other place in the world—­but he wouldn’t have come here.”

“Aha!  So Foy did come here, hey?” croaked the sheriff, triumphant in his turn.  “Thanks, Major, for the information, though I was sure before, humanly speaking, that he came this way.”

“Which is another way of saying that you don’t think Foy did the killing—­that you don’t even suspect him of it,” said Anastacio. as the Major subsided, crestfallen.  “Matt Lisner, I know that you hate Foy.  I know that you welcome this chance to get rid of him.  Make no mistake, Breslin.  I was not wanted here.  I wasn’t asked and none of my people were brought along.  I tagged along, though—­to wait.  It’s one of the best little things I do—­waiting.  And I came to protect Foy, not to capture him.  I came to keep right at his side, in case he surrendered without a fight—­for fear he might be killed ... escaping ... on the way back.  It’s a way that we have in Las Uvas!”

Lisner threw a look of hate at his deputy.

“You don’t mean to tell me there’s any danger of anything like that?” said Breslin, staggered and aghast.

“Every danger.  That’s an old gag—­the ley fuga.”

“You lie!” bawled Creagan.  His six-shooter covered Anastacio.

“That’ll keep.  Put up your gun, Bennie,” said Anastacio with great composure.  “Supper’s most ready.  Besides, the Barelas won’t like it if you shoot me this way.  There’s a lot of the Barelas, Ben.  I’ll tell you what I’ll do, though—­I’ll slip the idea to my crowd, and any time you want to kill me on an even break, no Barela or Ascarate will take it up.  Put it right in your little holster—­put it up, I say!  That’s right.  You see, Breslin?  Don’t let Foy out of your sight if he should be taken.”

“But he’ll never let himself be taken alive,” said Vorhis.  “Even if anyone wants to take him—­alive.  Pass the word to your friends, Breslin, unless you want them to take part in a deliberate, foreplanned murder.”

“Damn you, what do you mean?” shouted the sheriff.

“By God, sir, I mean just what I say!”

“Why, girls!” said Pringle.  “You shock me!  This is most unladylike.  This is scandalous talk.  Be nice!  Please—­pretty please!  See, here comes some more pussy-foot posse—­three, six, eleven hungry men.  Have they got Foy?  No; they have not got Foy.  Is he up?  He is up.  Look who’s here too!  Good old Applegate and Brother Espalin.  I wonder now if they’re goin’ to give me the cut direct, like Creagan did?  You notice, Mr. Breslin.”