Nick got up, shook himself, and winked at the hole in the wall where
had been the electric button. He was a handsome man, as tall as
Tuttle, but more slenderly built, with clean-cut features, dancing
black eyes, and a black mustache that swept in an upward curve over his
tanned cheek. His friend scrutinized him anxiously as he slid
cartridges into the empty chambers of his revolver.

"Sure you 're sober, Nick?"

Ellhorn laughed. "How the devil can I tell? I can walk straight and
see straight and shoot straight; and if that ain't sober enough to
tackle any four-spot Greaser, I might just as well get drunk again!"

"Well, I reckon you 're sober enough to jump into this job with me now;
and if you stay sober, it's all right. But if I catch you drinkin'
another drop till we get through with this business, I 'll run you back
into this room and sit on your belly till you 're ready to holler
quits!"

It was a dangerous solidarity of crime and mutual protection against
which the two deputy marshals started out alone. The Dysert gang had
been organized originally as a secret society to further the political
ambitions of men who were not overscrupulous as to instruments or
methods. But gradually it had drifted into a means of wreaking private
revenge and compelling money tribute. Those of its early members who
were of the law abiding sort had left it long before, and its
membership had dwindled to a handful of Mexicans of the recklessly
criminal sort. They were credited, in the general belief, with thefts,
assaults, and murders; but so closely had they held together, so potent
was their influence with men in public station, and so general was the