“I came for a drink,” returned Patches coolly.  “Excellent water, isn’t it?  And the day is really quite warm—­makes one appreciate such a delightfully cool retreat, don’t you think?”

“Heard us comin’ an’ thought you’d play the spy, did you?” growled the Tailholt Mountain man.

Patches smiled.  “Really, you know, I am afraid I didn’t think much about it,” he said gently.  “I’m troubled that way, you see,” he explained, with elaborate politeness.  “Often do things upon impulse, don’t you know—­beastly embarrassing sometimes.”

Nick glared at this polite, soft-spoken gentleman, with half-amused anger.  “I heard there was a dude tenderfoot hangin’ ’round the Cross-Triangle,” he said, at last.  “You’re sure a hell of a fine specimen.  You’ve had your drink; now s’pose you get a-goin’.”

“I beg pardon?” drawled Patches, looking at him with innocent inquiry.

“Vamoose!  Get out!  Go on about your business.”

“Really, Mr. Cambert, I understood that this was open range—­” Patches looked about, as though carefully assuring himself that he was not mistaken in the spot.

The big man’s eyes narrowed wickedly.  “It’s closed to you, all right.”  Then, as Patches did not move, “Well, are you goin’, or have I got to start you?” He took a threatening step toward the intruder.

“No,” returned Patches easily, “I am certainly not going—­not just at present—­and,” he added thoughtfully, “if I were you, I wouldn’t try to start anything.”

Something in the extraordinary self-possession of this soft-spoken stranger made the big man hesitate.  “Oh, you wouldn’t, heh?” he returned.  “You mean, I s’pose, that you propose to interfere with my business.”

“If, by your business, you mean beating a man who is so unable to protect himself, I certainly propose to interfere.”

For a moment Nick glared at Patches as though doubting his own ears.  Then rage at the tenderfoot’s insolence mastered him.  With a vile epithet, he caught the loaded quirt in his hand by its small end, and strode toward the intruder.

But even as the big man swung his wicked weapon aloft, a hard fist, with the weight of a well-trained and well-developed shoulder back of it, found the point of his chin with scientific accuracy.  The force of the blow, augmented as it was by Nick’s weight as he was rushing to meet it, was terrific.  The man’s head snapped back, and he spun half around as he fell, so that the uplifted arm with its threatening weapon was twisted under the heavy bulk that lay quivering and harmless.

Patches coolly bent over the unconscious man and extracted his gun from the holster.  Then, stepping back a few paces, he quietly waited.

Yavapai Joe, who had viewed the proceedings thus far with gaping mouth and frightened wonder, scrambled into his saddle and reined his horse about, as if to ride for his life.

“Wait, Joe!” called Patches sharply.