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you seek could be with Iron Hand. But which is she?”
    â€œIs there a way I can find what women are with Iron Hand?” McAllister asked.
    â€œHis band is the Bird Catchers. All the time fresh families join them. Iron Hand is a man with a terrible reputation, you must know. All the time he has fresh captives. It is not easy.”
    â€œCan you find out?”
    Fear flitted across the face of the fat man.
    â€œIf I knew, which I don’t, I could not tell you the names of the women. A man must live and a Comanchero lives by not talking.”
    â€œThere has to be some way I could find out.”
    â€œMaybe. To handle the rifle would help.”
    McAllister hesitated a moment, then he rose, went to the pack-mule and took down one of the single-shot Remington rifles he had taken from the Richards boys. He walked back and handed it to the
jefe
who took it with trembling hands. His excitement took him quite out of himself and he started to mumble joyously to himself. The men standing by the next cart came forward and crowded around, inspecting the rifle admiringly. McAllister knew he’d made a hit.
    â€œA rifle,” he said, “is of little use without the ammunition.”
    That seemed to throw a little cold water on them. They eyed him reproachfully.
    â€œYou are able to alter that situation, señor,” the fat man said.
    â€œI could. But first you must tell me what I want to know.”
    The man held out his hand. McAllister felt in his pocket and brought out three rounds. He tossed them to the fat man who at once opened the breech of the rifle.
    McAllister said: “You load it and I’ll blow your head off.”
    The fat man blinked. He stared hard at McAllister for a while until he seemed convinced that the tall man meant business.
    â€œAs you will,” he said and clicked the breech shut.
    The other men murmured. One of them lifted his spear threateningly and the
jefe
spoke to him sharply. He subsided.
    â€œThree rounds,” the fat man said, “are not much use to a hunter.”
    â€œThere are more when I hear what I want to hear.”
    â€œThere is a man, an old Yanqui. The Indians allow him to come and go.”
    McAllister had heard of such a man. He had heard the name Walt Islop used in connection with him. It was said that he was a squaw-man and that he knew more about the Comanches than any other living soul. If he communicated with the Bird Catchers he would know what white women they held. This could be the chance for which he had been waiting. He didn’t let his interest show.
    â€œWho is this man?”
    â€œI do not know his name.”
    â€œDoes he move around with the Indians or does he stay put in one place?”
    â€œSometimes he moves, I have heard, but mostly he stays in one place. The Indians come to him because he is good with wounds taken in battle. They regard him as a medicine man. They never harm him.”
    â€œWhere do I find him?”
    â€œThere is the matter of the ammunition.”
    McAllister rose again, went to his saddlebags and refilled his pockets with ammunition. He went back to the fat man and gave him three more rounds.
    â€œThis is not enough.”
    â€œNor is your information.”
    The
jefe
gave that some thought. Finally, he said: “You go south-west from here. Two, maybe three days. You will hit the creek as it bends by noon if you ride now. Follow the creek until you come to a ford by two rocks shaped like the heads of men. These you cannot fail to see. When you have crossed the creek there, travel directly west until you reach the canyons. There are several, including the great canyon where the Indians live. There is grass there for their ponies and theponies of Iron Hand are like the blades of grass in the numbers. The old white man lives in one of the smaller canyons.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œThat I do not know and you must find for yourself.”
    The fat man knew all right,