adingly.

I started, glad of the chance and hurried down toward the town.

There was a light in the little adobe house where he lived, and
proceeding cautiously, so as to be sure no one saw me, I went close and
whistled low in a way he would recognize. Then he opened the door and I
went in.

"Hello, son!" he said. "You needn't have worried. Sling a blanket over
that window so no one can see in."

He had his shirt off and had been in the act of bandaging a wound that
the bullet had cut in his shoulder.

"Let me tie that up," I said, taking the strips of linen. "Ahuh! Shot
you from behind, didn't he?"

"How else, you locoed lady-charmer? It's a wonder I didn't have to tell
you that."

"Tell me about it."

Steele related a circumstance differing little from other attempts at
his life, and concluded by saying that Snecker was a good runner if he
was not a good shot.

I finished the bandaging and stood off, admiring Steele's magnificent
shoulders. I noted, too, on the fine white skin more than one scar made
by bullets. I got an impression that his strength and vitality were like
his spirit--unconquerable!

"So you knew it was Bill Snecker's son?" I asked when I had told him
about finding the rustler.

"Sure. Jim Hoden pointed him out to me yesterday. Both the Sneckers are
in town. From now on we're going to be busy, Russ."

"It can't come too soon for me," I replied. "Shall I chuck my job? Come
out from behind these cowboy togs?"

"Not yet. We need proof, Russ. We've got to be able to prove things.
Hang on at the ranch yet awhile."

"This Bo Snecker was scared stiff till he recognized Wright. Isn't that
proof?"

"No, that's nothing. We've got to catch Sampson and Wright red-handed."

"I don't like the idea of you trailing along alone," I protested.
"Remember what Neal told me. I'm to kick. It's time for me to hang round
with a couple of guns. You'll never use one."

"The hell I won't," he retorted, with a dark glance of passion. I was
surprised that my remark had angered him. "You fellows are all wrong. I
know _when_ to throw a gun. You ought to remember that Rangers have a
bad name for wanting to shoot. And I'm afraid it's deserved."

"Did you shoot at Snecker?" I queried.

"I could have got him in the back. But that wouldn't do. I shot three
times at his legs--tried to let him down. I'd have made him tell
everything he knew, but he ran. He was too fast for me."

"Shooting at his legs! No wonder h