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"You are a good little sport, Mexico," he chuckled. "Now, on your way."

Joe, with never another look behind him, turned and ran, disappearing about the corner of the jail, sending back an account of himself in the sound of his racing footfalls among the pines.

Once again came a great shouting from the crowd in the road; they had seen, and now that they had their hearts' desire in having Mexicali Joe free, they saw themselves losing all hope of coming at his secret because they were losing him. Their brief interest in Bruce Standing was dead for the present; Joe ran like a scared cat, and they, like so many yelping dogs, set after him. And Timber-Wolf, watching, standing where he was with his big hands on his hips, roared with laughter.

Babe Deveril and the girl, Lynette Brooke, had seen much of all this. They were at the time on their way to the Gallup House, she to her room and he to his meeting with his lawless kinsman. Thus it happened that Deveril's first sight of Timber-Wolf in half a dozen years, and Lynette's first sight of him in all her life, was at a moment when he was engaged in an episode of the type which made him stand apart as the man he was.