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miles south on the Pecos. He was tired. He took off his coat, boots, and hat and threw himself on a bed. He smiled to himself as he thought how neatly he had thrown Garrett off the scent. While the posses were sweeping New Mexico, he had been safe in Fort Sumner among friends. But it was time for him to get out of the country. These bloodhounds on his trail would nose him out sooner or later. He would start for Mexico to-morrow night. And while the Kid dreamed his dream, death was waiting in ambush for him fifty feet away.

"Celsa," he called.

Celsa Gutierrez, Saval's wife, who had been waiting up for the Kid to come in from the sheep camp, stepped into the room from the kitchen.

"I'm hungry, Celsa," said the Kid. "Can't you get me a bite to eat?"

Celsa rummaged through her pantry.

"There is nothing here but some cold tortillas and coffee, Chiquito," she said, "but Pete Maxwell killed a beef to-day. It is hanging in the north porch of the Maxwell house. I'll go cut you off a steak and cook you a good supper."

She went back into the kitchen and got her butcher knife. She was reaching for her rebozo hanging on a nail on the wall to throw over her head against the night damp.

"I'll go for the meat," said the Kid, getting up from the bed.

"No, muchacho," protested Celsa. "You must stay here. There is no telling what might happen to you. Danger is always near you. You must not venture out to-night."

On this night of nights, Fate, it might seem, was setting the stage. There was no need for the Kid to come in