ne of my boys." Then, after a brief,
considering pause, in which he narrowly examined the distant horseman's
outfit: "Sort o' rec'nize him, too. Likely he's that bum guy with the
dandy wife way up on Butte Creek. Whitstone, ain't it? Feller with
swell folks way down east, an' who guesses the on'y sort o' farmin'
worth a cuss is done in Ju Penrose's saloon. That's him sure," he
added, as the man drew nearer. Then he went on musingly. "I guess
he's got a lot to dope out. Say, them guys must have passed near by
his shanty."

Bob Whitstone reined his pony up with a jerk. He was on a mission that
inspired no other emotion than that of repulsion and self-loathing.
And these things found reflection in his good-looking face.

He glanced swiftly from one to the other as he confronted the burly
rancher and his station foreman. The latter he did not know, nor was
he interested in him. The man he had come to see was Dug McFarlane,
who claimed from him, as he did from every man in the district,
something in the nature of respect.

"Guess you'll remember me, sir," he began, in his easy, refined tones.
"My name is Whitstone--Bob Whitstone. You granted me certain grazing
rights awhile back. It was some two years ago. Maybe you'll remember.
You did it to help me out. Anyway, I came over to see you this morning
because--I must. If you can spare half an hour I want to see you
privately. It's--important. You've been robbed last night, and--it's
about them. The gang, I mean."

His pony was still blowing. Bob had ridden hard. He had first ridden
into Orrville, and then followed the rancher out here. He was leaning
over in the saddle lounging upon the horn of it. His eyes were gazing
curiously, speculatively at the figure of the man who ruled the local
cattle industry. He was calculating in his own way what might be the
effect of the news he had to impart. What estimate this big man--and
Bob knew him to be a big man--would have of him when he had told his
news and claimed the--blood money? With each moment he shrank smaller
and smaller in his own estimation.

Dug regarded him steadily.

"You've got news of them?"

Bob nodded, and glanced meaningly in the direction of Lew Hank.

"I've seen 'em. But--it's more than that."

The rancher turned quickly upon his foreman.

"Say, just get along into the shack there, and see how the Doc's making
with young Syme. I need a talk with Whitstone."

It was not witho