In a room of the Lazy S ranch house Sam Fisher lay upon a cot; another held Steve Arnold, both men bandaged, splinted, and smoking cheerfully. Beside the sheriff of Pecos sat Estella Shumway, in her eyes a glow of happiness such as they had not known for months.  
Jake Harper, caressing his glossy black mustache, stood in the center of the room. He was just leaving for town. Behind him stood his half-crippled foreman, surveying Sam Fisher with a wolfish smile on his ancient features.
 
Jake clapped his foreman on the shoulder.
 
"Listen, Sam!" he said earnestly. "This here old relic, which same has fit more Injuns than kids like you ever seen, is agoin' to camp outside the door of that there cell we puts Mr. Buck into. Three more of my outfit camps in the jail likewise, until you gits there in person. If you figger Buck gittin' away from them four you guess again."
 
"C'rect; Jake," and Sam Fisher laughed softly. "Hold Buck there until I can reach town, that's all. You don't think any one will try to rescue him?"
 
Jake Harper pursed up his lips.
 
"Rescue him? Not much. The coroner's verdict will guarantee him a quick trial for the murder of Miguel, won't it? And I'm goin' to stick around town my ownself. Don't you worry none about any rescue. Them decrepit Injun fighters of mine is runnin' his whole outfit, or what's left of it, out the county."
 
"All right," said Fisher, nodding. "You take the keys to the sheriff's office—they're with the others I gave you—and look inside the sheriff's desk for those papers about Buck and Murphy. They must go to the governor at once; I'll have to go with 'em, I guess, so that puts it off a few days. Those papers are more importa............