The men were riding in single file, with Yavapai Joe in the lead and Patches last, and their positions were not changed when they halted while Joe, without dismounting, unlatched the gate.  They came through the opening, still in the same order, and as they halted again, while Patches closed the gate, Phil saw what it was that caused them to move with such apparent lack of freedom in their relative positions, and why Nick Cambert’s attitude in the saddle was so stiff and unnatural.  Nick’s hands were secured behind his back, and his feet were tied under the horse from stirrup to stirrup, while his horse was controlled by a lead rope, one end of which was made fast to Yavapai Joe’s saddle horn.

Patches caught sight of the two under the tree as he came through the gate, but he gave no sign that he had noticed them.  As the little procession moved slowly nearer, Phil and Kitty looked at each other without a word, but as they turned again to watch the approaching horsemen, Kitty impulsively grasped Phil’s arm.  And sitting so, in such unconscious intimacy, they must have made a pleasing picture; at least the man who rode behind Nick Cambert seemed to think so, for he was trying to smile.

When the riders were almost within speaking distance of the pair under the tree, they stopped; and the watchers saw Joe turn his face toward Patches for a moment, then look in their direction.  Nick Cambert did not raise his head.  Patches came on toward them alone.

As they saw that it was the man’s purpose to speak to them, Phil and Kitty rose and stood waiting, Kitty with her hand still on her companion’s arm.  And now, as they were given a closer and less obstructed view of the man who had been their friend, Kitty and Phil again exchanged wondering glances.  This was not the Honorable Patches whom they had known so intimately.  The man’s clothing was soiled with dirt, and old from rough usage, with here and there a ragged tear.  His tall form drooped with weariness, and his unshaven face, dark and deeply tanned, and grimed with sweat and dirt, was thin and drawn and old, and his tired eyes, deep set in their dark hollows, were bloodshot as though from sleepless nights.  His dry lips parted in a painful smile, as he dismounted stiffly and limped courteously forward to greet them.

“I know that I am scarcely presentable,” he said in a voice that was as worn and old as his face, “but I could not resist the temptation to say ‘Howdy’.  Perhaps I should introduce myself though,” he added, as if to save them from embarrassment.  “My name is Lawrence Knight; I am a deputy sheriff of this county.”  A slight movement as he spoke threw back his unbuttoned jumper, and they saw the badge of his office.  “In my official capacity I am taking a prisoner to Prescott.”

Phil recovered first, and caught the officer’s hand in a grip that told more than words.

Kitty nearly betrayed her secret when she gasped, “But you—­you said that you—­”