"Now see yere, Jim Westcott," he panted, one hand gripping the
stair-rail. "I've got ter know what's up, afore I throw open this yere
hotel to yer free use this-away. As a gineral thing I ain't 'round
huntin' trouble--I reckon yer know that--but this yere affair beats me.
What was it yer said about Bill Lacy?"
"He's under arrest, charged with cattle-stealing, abduction,
conspiracy, and about everything else on the calendar. Brennan's got
him, and likewise the evidence to convict."
"Good Lord! Is that so!"
"It is; the whole Mendez gang has been wiped out. Old Mendez has been
killed. The rest of the outfit, including Juan Cateras, are prisoners."
Timmons's eyes were fairly popping out of his head, his voice a mere
thread of sound.
"Don't that beat hell!" he managed to articulate. "Where's the
marshal?"
"Riding herd at a place they call Sunken Valley, about fifty miles
south of here. He and Moore have got ten or twelve Mexicans, and maybe
three hundred head of cattle to look after, until I can send somebody
out there to help him bring them in.
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