t was a fair enough
reason to have held either him or the sheriff under the same
circumstances.

"How about a reward? He trains with a crowd I'd hate to trust farther
than I could throw a bull by the tail. Some of 'em would sell their own
mothers for gold."

"I'll get in touch with Webb's family an' see if they won't offer a big
reward for information leading to the arrest of the murderer."

Within the week every crossroads store in the county had tacked to it a
placard offering a reward of five thousand dollars for the man who had
killed Homer Webb.

No applications for it came in at first.

"Wait," said Goodheart, smiling. "More than one yellow dog has licked its
jaws hungrily before that poster. Some dark night the yellowest one will
sneak in here to see you."

On the main street of Los Portales one evening Billie met Pauline
Roubideau. She came at him with a direct frontal attack.

"I've had a letter from Jim Clanton."

The sheriff did not ask her where it was post-marked. He did not want any
information from Polly as to the whereabouts of her friend.

"You're one ahead of me then. I haven't," answered Prince.

"He says he didn't do it."

"Do what?"

"Shoot Mr. Webb. And I know he didn't if he says he didn't."

The grave eyes of the young man met hers. "But Dad Wrayburn was there. He
saw the whole affair."

Pauline brushed this aside with superb faith. "I don't care. Jim never
lied to me in his life. I know he didn't do it--and it makes me so glad."

The young man envied her the faith that could reject evidence as though
it did not exist. The Jim Clanton she had once known would not have lied
to her. Therefore the Jim Clanton she knew now was worthy of perfect
trust. If there was any flaw in that logic the sweet and gallant heart of
the girl did not find it.

But Billie had talked with Dad Wrayburn. He had ridden out and gone over
the ground with a fine-tooth comb. Webb had been killed by a bullet
from a forty-four. Of his own knowledge Prince knew that Clanton was
carrying a weapon of this caliber only three hours before the killing.
There was no escape from the conviction of the guilt of his friend.

The sheriff walked back to the hotel where he was staying. On the way his
mind was full of the young woman he had just left. He had never liked
her better, never admired her more. But, somehow--and for the first time
he realized it--there was no longer any sting in the thought of her. He
did not