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Show teate&8UN BROWN gjjJSg - w. p-J .v Put the handcutl on Dolores, yes'" She laughed, and her laugh made Doane think again of a babbling mountain brook; or was It the low tinkling beauty of a vesper bell? She laughed, and she went on, musingly: mus-ingly: "You come for that, but the desert put his chain first on you, yes? And the desert throw you at my feet, half dead. The fortunes of war, my caballero!" She stood in utter quiet for another an-other second, and then Doane sensed that she was moving toward the door. He opened his eyes and looked at her. "Buenos dias, senorita." The girl whirled, and her hand flew to her hip. She smothered a little cry of exasperation as she discovered dis-covered she had no gun, and she leveled her blazing eyes on the grinning grin-ning face in the bed. His grin fled as Doane's eyes met hers. His heart stopped. Her face came clear to him, as though through a rising mist; he thrilled at the firm red lips drawn now in a hard straight line; he almost J ppput' sheriff Jim Ttoano Is called, upon by sIhmIIT Sam Flick to track dwn S-R ' trill robbers. Tho incrllt tells "' U"t ho believes tho f,nj It led by a girl, daughter of l'lo Alvnro. former rancher. Jim tUtrts to trail tho robber band from tho point lo the desert of San Loreto county where the hold up took place. Ills horse s bitten by rattlesnake and Jim bat to thoot him. Jim trudges through tho and, until, overcome by thirst, ho col-Upset. col-Upset. Four horsemen led by a girl rescue him. From their conversation It It plain that they are Spaniards or SKiicsns. Jim awakens three days Uter In a comfortable bed. When he - callt for water a tall man responds. CHAPTER III Doane saw a tall, languid man enter. He was dressed in a cheap, dark suit that still, somehow, gave him a dapper, suave appearance. He smoked a cigarette, lazily, his eyes squinting against the rising curls of smoke. Even so, they were the first thing Doane noticed about him . . . those odd, gray-green eyes, and the supple ease of the man's every gesture. The face was pallid. "Well, my frien'," said the languid lan-guid one, with the accented inflection inflec-tion which the Spanish mother-tongue mother-tongue gives to later acquired English. Eng-lish. "It is still more water? I think we pour 'most one well full into you already. But it is still more, yes?" Doane fell back on his pillow. A great, sobbing sigh escaped his lips. "Thank God!" he muttered. When the languid fellow stood be-jide be-jide his bed, questioning Doane with his eyes, he found him that swiftly in a profound deep slumber. The man finished his cigarette, watching watch-ing Doane, a half-smile on his lips. He shrugged his flexible shoulders. "So it is not water after all, my frien'? An' what will happen now, I wonder?" he asked aloud. "Eh? I wonder!" Doane slept deeply, in a dreamless dream-less peace, for nearly twenty hours. During this time an elderly woman replaced the man's watch and care of him. She sponged Doane's body; the placed damp cloths against his forehead. He slept on, unknowing. Then he awoke at last, there was a shaft of bright afternoon sunlight peeping through one of the windows of his room. Perhaps it had been the sound of muffled hoofs in the garden outside that had awakened him. He heard a horse stamp fretfully. Then low voices, coming nearer, wafting in softly through the open window to his ears. The speech was Spanish. Span-ish. ". . . And last night before Monte goes to work at the station, the stranger awakes," said a woman's voice. "But when Monte goes into the room, it is different. The man looks at Monte and he mutters, 'Gracias a' Dios!' That is all. He falls to sleep again that soon. And ever since he sleeps just like a baby. Like a child, senorita, with a smile on his lips. To see him so, you would not think him the evil man he is." There was a low, musical laugh In answer, and a second voice said: "I think I would like to see this man we rescued now. Perhaps one can never know! It would be weU to look carefully and remember remem-ber him." "While he sleeps so, you mean?" "Yes. No other way, to be sure, jffhlle his eyes see nothing in return." re-turn." Footsteps along some outer veranda, veran-da, and the older woman's voice saying: "Monte shaved his face yesterday. You would not know him as the same man. While he sleeps, he looks so like a gentle child. It is true. He looks like my own Monte when he was young." The low laugh again, in mild derision. de-rision. "But It is the heart of a man that counts, senora. This man's heart is known it is steel! Monte's ' gold. His name Is Doane. I know many things shout him." The door opened to Doane's room. The elderly woman glanced in; then walked softly to the bed. She looked down upon a man who breathed deeply, as though in sleep. The man's eyes were closed. "Psst! Come now." Light steps across the room. Silence. Si-lence. At length "No, I would not have recognized him as the same man." Just so. He is even handsome, enorita. A caballero." "If one forgets to think of the wart," said the softer voice. "But . well, I am glad to have saved Jiim from the death of thirst. That 's a horrible way to die." A door slammed. "Monte is come," said the older woman as she glided softly from the room. And he is hungry like the wolf." Doane heard the door closely noise-lessly, noise-lessly, and he realized with a start of satisfaction that the younger girl had tarried behind, the girl with the soft voice. His eyes were glued )t, but his straining ears told she had come to his bedside, at she was standing there looking wn at him. Seconds crawled past, Uke weary centuries, as he fought ack a smile and the temptation to "Pen his eyes. At last, softly, she We, as though to herself: A caballero, yes! You are a oandsome one, mio amigo; what "'ends we might be, if the gods had made us enemies. You come to her with a final gesture of contempt, regarded him levelly for a moment, then turned and opened the door. He sent one last jibe at her. "Adlos, Senorita Dolores Alvaro!" She turned, with her hand on the door; she walked swiftly back to him and looked at him once more, with eyes that no longer burned, but that were suddenly soft as black silk. She ran a nervous hand through her jet hair, then dropped It to his arm. "Please ... go back. Go away. Get out of this country when strength comes back. These men you seek . . . they are merciless . . . they will stop at nothing . . . they will kill you. I know! Please ..." She spun on her heel, and fled from the room. Doane stared after her, opened his mouth to call to her. For a long time he lay there, looking Into space. Again he slept, and dreamed of gay senoritas dancing in the sun. Before slumber conquered him, he told himself again that this girl had brought him back from the tortures of hell; that she had picked him up at the very gates of death, knowing well he was her sworn enemy, and that he had come for . . . her. He owed his life to her. A man's life meant . . . everything. every-thing. It was the greatest of his possessions. He slept. The hour was approaching sunset. Doane awoke and lay quietly as a man came into the room with a bowl of broth. He was the slim man of the day before. "The hand of God upon you, se-nor," se-nor," he said smoothly. "Broth?" Doane saw that in age he might be anywhere between thirty-five and forty-five. He noted the peculiar, easy grace of movement, sensing in the stranger, more than seeing it, the feline suppleness of strength that rippled beneath the bright shirt. The man's hands were white and slender, tapering at the fingers as though an artist had moulded them of strong white wax. He put down the bowl of broth and took out a cigarette; he lighted it with all the grace and eloquence of a priest at his ritual. The odd gray-green eyes met Doane's with piercing directness through the spirals of smoke as he dropped his match. "And who are you?" asked Doane. The man made a gesture with his white hands. He bowed slightly. "Me I am called Garcia . . . Monte Garcia, senor. An' in return, re-turn, senor, who are you?" "You don't know?" "Me, know?" exclaimed the one called Monte Garcia. "Senor, you flatter me with divine powers. You are, of course, a gentleman of importance. im-portance. That is obvious! So. But more than that . . . ah, how could one say?" "Where am I?" "Close to Sand Wells. Under my roof, senor, and quite safe." "Well, come on. Let's have the story." "Of how you came here, you mean, senor? But yes, of course. Of course, you would wish to hear that first. It is ah the beginning." Garcia made another fine gesture with his hands. Doane tossed in his bed. "Quit stalling. Let's have it." "I am employ' In Sand Wells. I have hands with which I work the telegraph instrument, ver' fast and without mistake, like it should be. So the railroad he like me, and 1 work for them. It is night work. Now, four days ago I walk home in the early morning, and what do I see, senor? None other but you. You stagger, you fall, you fall many times, you cry for water. You do not know how close you are to the town of Sand Wells, so close to houses an' water. I bring you here. An' that is all." Monte Garcia dismissed it all like that, with yet another gesture of his graceful hands. He pulled his knees up under him and took a long, deep pull on his cigarette. He was intimating that the matter was closed and done, once and for all. "All?" roared Doane, beside himself. him-self. "All, I assure you, senor," came the calm answer. U n 1 e s i you would include the hospitality of my leetle house, such as it is. You are welcome, senor. Up to this time I have found you a ver' quiet and courteous guest." "Bien!" snapped Doane. "I thank you for that But listen! Deep I in my mind I have another story. It differs from yours. Four men and a confederate held up an east bound train out of Sand Wells at dusk. They hit north. I followed. Three mornings later, in the desert, five riders found me, dying of thirst One was a girl. They brought me here. The girl is called Alvaro she is the daughter of one senor Miguel Alvaro and there is a warrant war-rant issued for her arrest. The warrant war-rant is sworn to by Star La Rue of Maxmilla City, and the charge ii stock theft from his ranch. This girl saved my life!" There was no change of expression expres-sion on Monte's pale face. His eyes looked steadily Into Doane's. He said calmly: "Mistaire La Rue is no man. He is what you call a skunk! Or as j we Spanish like to say, cabron! because the he-goat is a more filthy j animal." i (TO BE CONTINUED) j "These you shall never put on me, mio amigo." gasped aloud as he caught his first glance at that dark olive skin, framed in a gay kerchief at the full round throat and crowned above with raven hair as black as midnight. mid-night. She backed against the door, her eyes like glowing coals of black, smouldering fire; she fretted at her belt, still pulling at the gun that was not there. "You would shoot your caballero, your prisoner, senorita?" smiled Doane as he lifted himself on one elbow. "I offer you my gun. You should find it in that holster, on the chair." "You you did not sleep. You tricked me!" "Tricked you, senorita? No man with eyes to see and half a heart could stoop to trick one so beautiful." beau-tiful." And immediately he had said it, he knew he had blundered, and he knew also that he meant it. These were not mere words; they were the echo of something buried deep within him, the echo of a still small voice that told him this was the most beautiful girl in the universe. uni-verse. A ruddy flush crept under the olive skin of her cheeks, and she spoke deliberately: "Ah! Now you are insulting, senor. se-nor. I would not believe it, had these ears not heard you say It. My men tell me you are brave, that you fear no man alive. But your own words make you ... a fool. The gallant deputy Jim Doane! It is to laugh!" Doane chuckled. "All's fair in love and war, my friend. I think you spoke of the fortunes of war? Correct. Cor-rect. We may have nothing to do with love, but . . . we are at war, senorita, you and I? You know why I have come?" "SI, I know. I am told you come to catch the train thieves." The mere hint of a smile crept into her eyes. "And have you captured cap-tured them, Mr. Deputy Doane?" "Not yet," replied Doane evenly even-ly holding her eyes. "But I am close to them. I I were strong enough, I might put my hands on one of them, right now." It was a shot in the dark, but it went home. The girl moved one hand swiftly to her heart, and her eyes wavered as she turned away. In an instant she was back, frowning frown-ing at him, her eyes afire again. "Listen to me, my brave one. I know who you are, and all about you You know me, but not so well. I am not the one you think I am; I am not the one you want, not the thief you have been sent to capture. cap-ture. I swear it Even if I am, you have not one little tiny piece of evidence against me. And without evidence . . . what?" She picked up his handcuffs from the footpost of the bed, and jangled them while she smiled at him. These you shall never put on me, mio amigo. And if you are not wiser than you are today, you shall never put them on anyone." Doane grinned. She flung the bracelets away from |