"His noime's Crowley; just a friend o' moine; mebbe yer know the lad?"
"No; certainly not. Does he go along with you?"
"Fer only a bit o' ther way"; he lowered his voice to even greater intimacy. "Shure, it's a parfectly still tongue the b'y has in the cheek o' him."
She laughed nervously.
"Well, I'm glad of that; and we'll not stand here discussing the matter. Do you know who I am?"
"Divil a thought have Oi."
"You were expecting to meet Mr. Enright, weren't you? That was what
Bill Lacy told you. He was to explain to you just what you were to do."
Brennan mumbled something indistinctly, now thoroughly aroused to the situation.
"Well, Mr. Enright couldn't come, and Lacy is over across the creek yet, hunting down Ned Beaton's murderer. I am Miss La Rue," she hurried on, almost breathlessly, "and I've brought you Lacy's note, which you are to give to that Mexican—Pasqual Mendez. You understand? You are to give it to him, and no one else. Lacy said you could kill your horse, if necessary, but the note must be there by daylight to-morrow. Here—take it."
Brennan thrust it into an inner pocket, and cleared his throat. There was no small risk in asking questions, yet, unless he learned more, this information might prove utterly useless. The note to Mendez meant little until he discovered where that bandit was to be found. He felt his flesh prickle in the intensity of his suppressed excitement.