to-night. That leaves our cash quite short at present. Sorry we can't
arrange it for you."

Merwin went back to his little bare office and plaited at his quirt
again. About four o'clock in the afternoon he went to the First
National Bank and leaned over the railing of Longley's desk.

"I'll try to get that money for you to-night--I mean to-morrow, Bill."

"All right, Tom," said Longley quietly.

At nine o'clock that night Tom Merwin stepped cautiously out of the
small frame house in which he lived. It was near the edge of the
little town, and few citizens were in the neighbourhood at that hour.
Merwin wore two six-shooters in a belt, and a slouch hat. He moved
swiftly down a lonely street, and then followed the sandy road that
ran parallel to the narrow-gauge track until he reached the water-
tank, two miles below the town. There Tom Merwin stopped, tied a black
silk handkerchief about the lower part of his face, and pulled his hat
down low.

In ten minutes the night train for Rockdell pulled up at the tank,
having come from Chaparosa.

With a gun in each hand Merwin raised himself from behind a clump of
chaparral and started for the engine. But before he had taken three
steps, two long, strong arms clasped him from behind, and he was
lifted from his feet and thrown, face downward upon the grass. There
was a heavy knee pressing against his back, and an iron hand grasping
each of his wrists. He was held thus, like a child, until the engine