"Go slow until you know what you're doing," he admonished curtly. "Then go like hell."
He skirted the crowd and went up to his cabin to be alone and do a bit of thinking on his own part.
CHAPTER III
There was a crowd of men, tight-jammed, about the little square stone jail as Deveril made his way toward his cabin. Every man of them was striving for a glance through the barred slit of a window behind which Mexicali Joe glared out at them. In the throng Deveril marked a man who wore his deputy-sheriff's badge thrust prominently into notice and who carried a rifle across the hollow of his arm. Deveril shrugged and went on.
"In jail or out, the Mex is going to keep a shut mouth," he meditated. "He'll never spill a word now, unless Taggart gets a chance to give him a rough-and-ready third degree. And Taggart will get no such chance to-night."
Through the dim dusk gathering among the pines he came to the cabin. A light winked at him through the open door; Maria, Joe's daughter, was getting his supper. Well, he was ready for it; blow hot, blow cold, a man must eat.
"Hello, Señorita," he greeted her from the threshold. "How does it feel to be the one and only daughter of the most distinguished gentleman in town?"
Maria did not understand him, but her white teeth flashed and her large southern eyes were warm and friendly.