ith Miss Joyce. And, say, take along a rope. Might
need it."

A moment later Hart was in the restaurant commandeering rice and Sanders
was lifting his dusty hat to the young woman in the buggy.

"If I can he'p you any, Miss Joyce," he said.

Beneath dark and delicate brows she frowned at him. "Who are you?"

"Dave Sanders my name is. I reckon you never heard tell of me. I punch
cows for yore father."

Her luminous, hazel-brown eyes steadied in his, read the honesty of his
simple, boyish heart.

"You heard what I said to that man?"

"Part of it."

"Well, it's true. I know it is, but I can't prove it."

Hart, moving swiftly down the street, waved a hand at his friend as he
passed. Without turning his attention from Joyce Crawford, Dave
acknowledged the signal.

"How do you know it?"

"Steelman's men have been watching our house. They were hanging around at
different times day before yesterday. This man Shorty was one."

"Any special reason for the feud to break out right now?"

"Father was going to prove up on a claim this week--the one that takes in
the Tularosa water-holes. You know the trouble they've had about it--how
they kept breaking our fences to water their sheep and cattle. Don't you
think maybe they're trying to keep him from proving up?"

"Maybeso. When did you see him last?"

Her lip trembled. "Night before last. After supper he started for the
Cattleman's Club, but he never got there."

"Sure he wasn't called out to one of the ranches unexpected?"

"I sent out to make sure. He hasn't been seen there."

"Looks like some of Brad Steelman's smooth work," admitted Dave. "If he
could work yore father to sign a relinquishment--"

Fire flickered in her eye. "He'd ought to know Dad better."

"Tha's right too. But Brad needs them water-holes in his business bad.
Without 'em he loses the whole Round Top range. He might take a crack at
turning the screws on yore father."

"You don't think--?" She stopped, to fight back a sob that filled her
soft throat.

Dave was not sure what he thought, but he answered cheerfully and
instantly. "No, I don't reckon they've dry-gulched him or anything.
Emerson Crawford is one sure-enough husky citizen. He couldn't either be
shot or rough-housed in town without some one hearin' the noise. What's
more, it wouldn't be their play to injure him, but to force a
relinquishment."

"That's true. You believe that, don't you?" Joyce cried eagerly.

"Sure I do." And