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"One of us ought to ride into Fort Sumner now and reconnoitre," said Garrett. "Nose around. Take a drink or two at old Beaver Smith's bar and talk with the fellows. Might learn something if there's anything to learn. But I can't go. Everybody knows me. I lived there two years."

"I can't either," spoke up McKinney. "I've been here half-a-dozen times, and quite a few know me."

"Nobody knows me," said Poe. "I'll go."

"If you don't pick up any information in Fort Sumner," said Garrett, "ride on to Charlie Rudolph's ranch seven miles out on the Las Vegas road. Charlie's an old-timer and a friend of mine and you can lay your cards on the table with him. If the Kid's in the country, he'll tell you. I'll give you a note to him."

Garrett tore a page out of his pocket notebook, scratched off a few lines to Rudolph and gave the paper to Poe.

"McKinney and I will wait here in the sandhills for you until dark," he added. "If you don't come back, we'll ride to the end of the double row of cottonwoods four miles north of Fort Sumner near the little Mexican village of Punta de la Glorietta and meet you there at nine o'clock."

It was ten o'clock in the morning of July 14th when Poe rode into Fort Sumner and hitched his horse in front of Beaver Smith's saloon. The grizzled old proprietor stood in the door.

"Warm day," observed Poe ingratiatingly.

"Where you from?" asked old Beaver, waiving formalities.

"White Oaks."

"Live there?"

"Been doing a little mining. Not much luck. On the way back to my home in Mobeetie."