“Would he do it?” gasped the victim, with a last appeal to Collins.
“Would he what? Oh, shoot you up. Cayn’t tell till I see. If he says he will he’s liable to. He always was that haidstrong.”
“But—why—why—”
“Yes, it’s sure a heap against the law, but then Bucky ain’t a lawyer. I don’t reckon he cares sour grapes for the law—as law. It’s a right interesting guess as to whether he will or won’t.”
“There’s a heap of cases the law don’t reach prompt. This is one of them,” contributed the ranger cheerfully. He pocketed his watch and picked up the .45. “Any last message or anything of that sort, signor? I don’t want to be unpleasant about this, you understand.”
The whilom bad man’s teeth chattered. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Now, that’s right sensible. I hate to come into another man’s house and clutter it up. Reel off your yarn.”
“I don’t know—what you want.”
“I want the whole story of your kidnapping of the Mackenzie child, how came you to do it, what happened to Dave Henderson, and full directions where I may locate Frances Mackenzie. Begin at the beginning, and I’ll fire questions at you when you don’t make any point clear to me. Turn loose your yarn at me hot off the bat.”
The man told his story sullenly. While he was on the round-up as cook for the riders he had heard Mackenzie and Henderson discussing together the story of their adventure with the dying Spaniard and their hopes of riches from the mine he had left them. From that night he had set himself to discover the secret of its location, had listened at windows and at keyholes, and had once intercepted a letter from one to the other. By chance he had discovered that the baby was carrying the secret in her locket, and he had set himself to get it from her.