"To think you 'd pile in here like this, when I 'm in a hole and need
you bad," Tuttle went on in a grieved tone.

The fogs had begun to clear out of Ellhorn's head, and he looked up
with quick concern. "What's up, Tom?"

"The Dysert gang 's broke loose again, and Marshal Black 's in San
Francisco, and Sheriff Williamson 's gone to Chicago. I 've got to
ride herd on 'em all by myself."

"What have they done?"

"Old man Paxton was found dead by his front gate yesterday morning. He
'd been killed by a knife-thrower, and a boss one at that--cut right
across his jugular. I went straight for Felipe Vigil, and last night I
got a clue from him, and he promised to tell me more to-day. But this
morning he was found dead under the long bridge with his tongue cut
out. That's enough for 'em; not another Greaser will dare open his
mouth now. I wired you yesterday at Plumas to come as quick as you
could."

"Then what you gruntin' about, Tom? I left Plumas before your wire got
there, and how could I be any quicker 'n that?"

"I wish Emerson was here. I 'd like to have his judgment about this
business. Emerson 's always got sure good judgment."

"Send for him, then," was Nick's prompt rejoinder.

Tuttle looked at him with surprise and disapproval. "Nick, are you