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"I'll bet a hat Gallup was lying about that warning to my mad kinsman," he told himself thoughtfully. "I don't believe he's man enough to get rough with Bruce Standing."

It was almost at the moment that Deveril came out of Gallup's place that the first shock of genuine news burst along the crowded road; Mexicali Joe had been located. He was in the stone jail, not five hundred yards from the thickest of his seekers, and had been there since last night, locked up by Taggart! The crowd split asunder as cleanly as though some gigantic axe had cloven its way between the two fragments; one group at full tilt ran to the jail, to prove to their own senses that here at last was a word of truth; the other streamed down to the Gallup House, seeking Taggart and an explanation. With the latter went Babe Deveril, who meant to keep his eye on Taggart and Gallup.

There were three steps leading up to Gallup's side door through which at last came Taggart, when the crowd clamored for him. He stood on the top step, looking stolidly at the faces confronting him. He was a big man, massive of physique, hard-eyed, strong-willed; he had been sheriff for a dozen years and after long office as the chief representative of the law bore in his look the stamp of that unquestioned authority which is the unmistakable brand of the mountain sheriff. He had looked straight into the eyes of many men in many moods and his own glance never wavered. Never a great talker, he stood now a moment in silence, tugging slowly at his heavy black mustache.