The streets were still lighted, although the crowd was thinning. Waring
turned a corner and drifted through the shadows toward the edge of town.
As he passed open doorways he was greeted in Mexican, and returned each
greeting pleasantly. The adobe at the end of the side street he was on
was dark.

Waring paused. Pedro Salazar's house was the only unlighted house in the
district. The circumstance hinted of an ambushment. Waring crossed to
the deeper shadows and whistled. The call was peculiarly low and
cajoling. He was answered by a muffled nickering. His horse Dex was
evidently corralled at the back of the adobe.

Pedro Salazar knew that Waring would come for the horse sooner or later,
so he waited, crouching behind the adobe wall of the enclosure.

Waring knocked loudly on Salazar's door and called his name. Then he
turned and ran to the corner, dodged round it, and crept along the
breast-high adobe wall. He whistled again. A rope snapped, and there
came the sound of quick trampling. A rush and the great, tawny shape of
Dexter reared in the moonlight and swept over the wall. With head up,
the horse snorted a challenge. Waring called softly. The horse wheeled
toward him. Waring caught the broken neck-rope and swung up. A flash cut
the darkness behind him. Instinctively he turned and threw two shots. A
figure crumpled to a dim blur in the corral.

Waring raced down the alley and out into the street. At the
livery-stable he asked for his saddle and bridle. The Mexican,
chattering, brought them. Waring tugged the cinchas tight and mounted.
Far down the street some one called.