wood under his head, his repose was deep and dreamless, but in the dawn's
light he woke, suddenly called out of slumber by a thought. It floated on
the surface of his conciousness, vaguely disturbing, then took slow shape
and he sat up feeling in the pockets of his coat. The paper was gone;
Knapp saying he had taken it was not a dream. For a space he sat, coming
to clearer recollection, his partner's voice calling, vaguely heard, its
request unheeded in his preoccupation. He gave a mutter of relief, and
dropping back settled himself into comfort. The paper was as safe there
as in his own pocket and he'd have it again inside of a week. With the
first light in his eyes, he lapsed off again for another hour.




CHAPTER III

MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE


A few miles below where the stage was held up a branch road breaks from
the main highway and cuts off at right angles across the plain. This is a
ranchers' road. If you follow it southward you come to the region of vast
holdings, acres of trees in parallel lines as straight as if laid with a
tape measure, great, fawn-colored fields, avenues of palm and oleander
leading to white houses where the balconies have striped awnings and
people sit in cushioned wicker chairs.

The other end of it runs through lands of decreasing cultivation
till--after it passes Tito Murano's cottage--it dips to the tules and
that's the end of it. To be sure, a trail--a horse path--breaks away and