“And Sanchez himself is out yonder on that sand-spit,” and Keith pointed; then lifted his voice to make it carry across the stream. “Come on over, Doctor, you and Neb. We've got the gang. Bring that body out there along with you.”
The “Bar X” man waded out to help, and the three together laid the dead Mexican outlaw on the bank beside the Indian he had shot down in his effort to escape. Keith stood for a moment bending low to look curiously into the dead face—wrinkled, scarred, still featuring cruelty, the thin lips drawn back in a snarl. What scenes of horror those eyes had gazed upon during fifty years of crime; what suffering of men, women, children; what deeds of rapine; what examples or merciless hate. Juan Sanchez!—the very sound of the name made the blood run cold. “Dead or alive!” Well, they had him at last—dead; and the plainsman shuddered, as he turned away.
Taking Fairbain with him, and hastily reviewing late occurrences to him, Keith crossed over to the corral, realizing that their work—his work—was not wholly done until Hawley had been located. With this quest in mind he strode straight to the black-bearded giant who had guarded Hope from Sheridan.
“What is your name?” he asked sharply.
The man looked up scowling.
“Hatchett,” he answered gruffly.
“Well, Hatchett, I am going to ask you a question or two, and advise you to reply just about as straight as you know how. I am in no mood to-night for any foolishness. Where is 'Black Bart' Hawley?”
“How in hell should I know?”
“You do know, just the same. Perhaps not to an inch, or a mile, but you know near enough where he is, and where he has been since you left Sheridan.”
“If I do, I'm damned if I'll tell you.”