where he had bitten into it.

He walked into Conley's yard an hour after that, his face drearily
impassive, a dead man lashed to the saddle. He asked for paper and a
pen, and in a firm, even handwriting he described tersely the manner
of Burt Brownlee's death, told where the dead horse and the saddle
would be found, and as an afterthought, lest there be trouble in
locating the spot, he drew a sketch of that particular part of the
Lava Beds. He signed the statement, and had the excited Conleys,
shaking man and half hysterical wife, sign also as witnesses. His
matter-of-fact treatment of the affair impressed them to the point of
receiving his instructions as though they were commands which must on
no account be disobeyed in any particular.

"I'll be back and tell the coroner. He'll want to see the horse and
saddle, perhaps. Mr. Conley, you can find them without any trouble. If
he wants an inquest, tell him I'll be on hand. Thank you, Mrs.
Conley,--no, I'll not wait for anything to eat. I'm not hungry. I must
get home. Good-by--sorry I can't do any more for you."

He mounted Sorry, pricked him into a gallop, and presently disappeared
around a bend of the trail that led in the direction of the Devil's
Tooth ranch.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

HOW ONE TRAIL ENDED

Darkness falls late on the Black Rim country in midsummer. It was just
deepening from dusk when Lance rode up to the corral gate, pulled the
saddle and bridle off Sorry with swift jerks that bespoke a haste born
of high nervous tension, and strode up to the house. From the bunk
house, when he passed, came the murmur of low-keyed voices. The
outfit, then, was at home once more. From the shaded window of Belle's
bedroom a thin silver of light shone, where the blind was curled back
at the edge, but the rest of the house was dark. He went in, moving
softly, but Belle must have heard his step on the porch, for she came
out with her bedroom lamp in her hand, the other raised to impress
quiet upon him.

"Lance, honey! Where on earth have you been?" She set the lamp down on
the table and came close, putting her arms around him, her eyes
searching the impenetrable calm of his face, the veiled purpose behind
his eyes. It was the Lorrigan fighting look; she had seen it once or
twice in Tom's face and it had frightened her. She was frightened
now, but her own intrepid soul pushed back her fear.

"_Sh-sh_, honey," she whispered, though Lance had neither moved nor
s