"Sure he did; and he rode all day and most of the night to find me. We came across each other by chance, not more than two miles from here."
"If he's a friend of yours," said Matt suspiciously, "and a friend of Morisco's, why——"
"You don't know Mexicans, King. José doesn't know any more than the law allows, but I rendered him a service once, and he's never forgotten it."
José, apparently paying no attention to the talk, was putting on Bascomb's expensive Stetson, and a coat which was infinitely better than the one he had exchanged for it.
"Here's where our trails divide, José," said Bascomb, in English, taking the roll of bills from his pocket and stripping a bank-note from it and handing it to the Mexican. "You've made some mighty bad mistakes, but I give you credit for doing your best. Adios."
"Adios!" answered José.
Both men mounted their horses; and when Bascomb and Matt made off, José, on his jaded beast, sat watching them until they got around the spur on their way to the Gap.
Bascomb led the way, spurring his animal into a slow gallop. Matt followed, accommodating the speed of the Comet to the gait of the horse. The long flat was crossed and the mountain climbed and descended—all without mishap, and without a word of talk between the two travelers.
Matt's mind was busy. To pull the wool over his eyes was not an easy matter, and the story told by Bascomb was figuratively speaking, too full of holes to hold water.
José had been with Juan Morisco. Juan was one of the Dangerfield gang. José would not have run from the sheriff unless he had had a guilty conscience. Yet, when he had run away, he had taken the trouble to ride a hundred miles and hunt for Bascomb. Bascomb had explained that José was indebted to him, and had hunted him up for that reason. But that, as Matt looked at it, was no reason at all.