Borne upon one of the Casa Blanca’s doors Norton was carried to Struve’s hotel, the nearest place where an attempt could be made to care for him.  Word came in that Virginia Page had been summoned upon one of her rare calls and was in Las Estrellas.  Patten, however, would be on hand in a moment.  It was suggested that Kid Rickard also be carried to the hotel.  But he himself asked to be left where he was until Patten came, and Cutter raised no objection.  It was clear that the Kid was too badly hurt to think of making an escape, were such his desire.

Galloway and Antone alone were put under arrest, the others merely advised to be on hand if they were wanted later.  Galloway coolly demanded the charge against him.

“Resisting an officer is as good as any right now,” snapped Cutter.

As quiet claimed the town again Caleb Patten became the most important figure in San Juan.  At such moments he seemed to swell visibly.  He drove the curious from the room while he examined the unconscious sheriff and, when he had finished, merely shook his head, looked grave, and refused to commit himself.  He ordered Norton undressed and put to bed, went down the street to see Kid Rickard, probed the wound in the upper chest, ordered him to bed, and returned to Norton at the hotel.

“Well?” asked John Engle who had arrived, talked with Struve, and now looked anxiously to Patten.  Patten shrugged.

“Heavy-caliber bullet ripped along the side of his head,” he said thoughtfully.  “I am going to make a second examination now.  Doubtless just the shock stunned him.  That or striking his head as he pitched forward; there’s another slight wound, a scalp wound, showing where his head hit as he fell.”

A moment later Tom Cutter came in hastily, stood for a little staring with frowning, troubled eyes at the quiet form on the bed, and went away, tugging at his lip, his frown deepening.  He had his hands full to-night, had Tom Cutter, and no one but himself knew how he wanted Rod Norton to tell him just what to do, to show him the way to make no mistake.  Leaving the room he had gone no farther than the front door when he swung about and returned.

“May I have a word with you, Mr. Engle?” he asked.

Engle nodded and followed him silently.  Out in the street, in the full light of Struve’s porch-lamp, Cutter stopped, glancing about him to make sure that he was not overheard.

“You know all about the shooting of Brocky Lane up in the mountains,” he said hurriedly.  “Rod told me you did.  Well, I just gathered in Moraga!”

“Moraga?” muttered Engle.  “He has seen Galloway, then?  And told him all about our knowing the rifles were cached in the old caves?”

“I found him at the Casa Blanca,” said Cutter, the worried look in his eyes.  “Somebody shot out the light when the mix-up started, you know.  I’ve a notion it was Moraga.  He was in one of the little card-rooms . . . putting on his shoes!  I got his gun; he’d fired just one shot.  The muzzle of it was bloody.”