The man holding the bridle of the horse on which Bonita had been bound was at once recognized by Madeline as the big-bodied, bullet-headed guerrilla who had found the basket of wine in the spring at camp. Redder of face, blacker of beard, coarser of aspect, evidently under the influence of liquor, he was as fierce-looking as a gorilla and as repulsive. Besides him there were three other men present, all mounted on weary horses. The one in the foreground, gaunt, sharp-featured, red-eyed, with a pointed beard, she recognized as the sheriff of El Cajon.
Madeline hesitated, then stopped in the middle of the porch. Alfred, Florence, and several others followed her out; the rest of the cowboys and guests crowded the windows and doors. Stillwell saw Madeline, and, throwing up his hands, roared to be heard. This quieted the gesticulating, quarreling men.
“Wal now, Pat Hawe, what’s drivin’ you like a locoed steer on the rampage?” demanded Stillwell.
“Keep in the traces, Bill,” replied Hawe. “You savvy what I come fer. I’ve been bidin’ my time. But I’m ready now. I’m hyar to arrest a criminal.”
The huge frame of the old cattleman jerked as if he had been stabbed. His face turned purple.
“What criminal?” he shouted, hoarsely.
The sheriff flicked his quirt against his dirty boot, and he twisted his thin lips into a leer. The situation was agreeable to him.
“Why, Bill, I knowed you hed a no-good outfit ridin’ this range; but I wasn’t wise thet you hed more ’n one criminal.”
“Cut that talk! Which cowboy are you wantin’ to arrest?”
Hawe’s manner altered.