"She came to see you， Mr.Littlefield.Her name's Joya Trevi馻s.She wants to see you about -- well， she's mixed up with that Rafael Ortiz.She's his -- she's his girl.She says he's innocent.She says she made the money and got him to pass it.Don't you believe her， Mr.Little-field.That's the way with these Mexi-can girls； they'll lie， steal， or kill for a fellow when they get stuck on him.Never trust a woman that's in love！""Mr.Kilpatrick！"
Nancy Derwent's indignant exclamation caused the deputy to flounder for a moment in attempting to explain that he had misquoted his own sentiments， and then he event on with the translation：
"She says she's willing to take his place in the jail if you'll let him out.She says she was down sick with the fever， and the doctor said she'd die if she didn't have medicine.That's why he passed the lead dollar on the drug store.She says it saved her life.This Rafal.
seems to be her honey， all right； there's a lot of stuff in her talk about love and such things that you don't want to hear."It was an old story to the district attorney.
"Tell her，" said he， "that I can do nothing.The case comes up in the morning， and he will have to make his fight before the court."Nancy Derwent was not so hardened.She was look-ing with sympathetic interest at Joya Trevi馻s and at Littlefield alternately.The deputy repeated the dis-trict attorney's words to the girl.She spoke a sentence or two in a low voice， pulled her shawl closely about her face， and left the room.
"What did she say then？" asked the district attorney.
"Nothing special，" said the deputy."She said： 'If the life of the one' -- let's see how it went -- 'Si la vida de ella a quien tu amas -- if the life of the girl you love is ever in danger， remember Rafael Ortiz.'"Kilpatrick strolled out through the corridor in the direction of the marshal's office.
"Can't you do anything for them， Bob？" asked Nancy.
"It's such a little thing -- just one counterfeit dollar --to ruin the happiness of two lives！ She was in danger of death， and he did it to save her.Doesn't the law know the feeling of pity？""It hasn't a place in jurisprudence， Nan，" said Little-field， "especially in re the district attorney's duty.I'll promise you that the prosecution will not be vindictive；but the man is as good as convicted when the case is called.
Witnesses will swear to his passing the bad dollar which I have in my pocket at this moment as 'Exhibit A.' There are no Mexicans on the jury， and it will vote Mr.Greaser guilty without leaving the box."The plover-shooting was fine that afternoon， and in the excitement of the sport the case of Rafael and the grief of Joya Trevi馻s was forgotten.The district attor-ney and Nancy Derwent drove out from the town three miles along a smooth， grassy road， and then struck across a rolling prairie toward a heavy line of timber on Piedra Creek.Beyond this creek lay Long Prairie， the favourite haunt of the plover.As they were nearing the creek they heard the galloping of a horse to their right， and saw a man with black hair and a swarthy face riding toward the woods at a tangent， as if he had come up behind them.
"I've seen that fellow somewhere，" said Littlefield， who had a memory for faces， "but I can't exactly place him.
Some ranchman， I suppose， taking a short cut home."They spent an hour on Long Prairie， shooting from the buckboard.Nancy Derwent， an active， outdoor Western girl， was pleased with her twelve-bore.She had bagged within two brace of her companion's score.
They started homeward at a gentle trot.When within a hundred yards of Piedra Creek a man rode out of the timber directly toward them.
"It looks like the man we saw coming over，" remarked Miss Derwent.
As the distance between them lessened， the district attorney suddenly pulled up his team sharply， with his eyes fixed upon the advancing horseman.That individ-ual had drawn a Winchester from its scabbard on his saddle and thrown it over his arm.
"Now I know you， Mexico Sam！" muttered Littlefield to himself."It was you who shook your rattles in that gentle epistle."Mexico Sam did not leave things long in doubt.He had a nice eye in all matters relating to firearms， so when he was within good rifle range， but outside of danger from No.8 shot， he threw up his Winchester and opened fire upon the occupants of the buckboard.
The first shot cracked the back of the seat within the two-inch space between the shoulders of Littlefield and Miss Derwent.The next went through the dashboard and Littlefield's trouser leg.
The district attorney hustled Nancy out of the buck-board to the ground.She was a little pale， but asked no questions.She had the frontier instinct that accepts conditions in an emergency without superfluous argument.
They kept their guns in hand， and Littlefield hastily gathered some handfuls of cartridges from the pasteboard box on the seat and crowded them into his pockets"Keep behind the horses， Nan，" he commanded.
"That fellow is a ruffian I sent to prison once.He's trying to get even.He knows our shot won't hurt him at that distance.""All right， Bob，" said Nancy steadily."I'm not afraid.But you come close， too.Whoa， Bess； stand still， now！"She stroked Bess's mane.Littlefield stood with his gun ready， praying that the desperado would come within range.
But Mexico Sam was playing his vendetta along safe lines.He was a bird of different feather from the plover.
His accurate eye drew an imaginary line of circumference around the area of danger from bird-shot， and upon this line lie rode.His horse wheeled to the right， and as his victims rounded to the safe side of their equine breast-work he sent a ball through the district attorney's hat.
Once he miscalculated in making a d閠our， and over-stepped Ms margin.Littlefield's gun flashed， and Mexico Sam ducked his head to the harmless patter of the shot.A few of them stung his horse， which pranced promptly back to the safety line.
