he pocket. He found
a hide, and if it ain't his he shore thinks it is, and that's just
about the same. And we camped over there three days ago. Where all did
you and Mel look?"

"All over, wherever a hide could be cached. There ain't any over
there. Scotty musta dreamt it--or else he buried it."

"Scotty ain't the dreamy kind. Might be possible that the ones that
done the killing went back and had a burying--which they'd oughta
have had at the time. I can't sabe a man rustling beef and leaving
the hide laying around, unless--" Tom pulled his eyebrows together
in quick suspicion. "It kinda looks to me like a frame-up," he
resumed from his fresh viewpoint. "Well, you and Mel keep it under
your hats, Duke. Don't say nothing to any of the boys at all. But if
any of the boys has anything to say, you listen. Scotty made the
rounds to-day--talked to the whole bunch. They know all about his
spotty yearlin', gol darn him! I'd like to know if any of 'em has got
any inside dope. There's strangers in the outfit this spring. And,
Duke, you kinda keep your eye on Cheyenne. Al seems to think he
ain't right--but Al has got to the suspicious age, when every man
and his dog packs a crime on his conscience. You kinda stall around
and see if Cheyenne lets slip anything."

"What would happen to old Scotty Douglas if he lost a bunch, for gosh
sake? Drop dead, I reckon," grumbled Duke. "He's sure making a lot of
fuss over one measly yearlin'."

"Yeah--but I've saw bigger fusses made over smaller matters, son," Tom
drawled whimsically. "I saw two men killed over a nickel in change,
once. It ain't the start; it's the finish that counts."

"Well, looking at it that way, uh course--"

"That's the only way to look at it, son. Did you think, maybe, that I
hazed you over to find that hide and bury it, just to keep it from
scentin' up the scenery? It's what I could smell farther ahead that I
was after. If you'd looked ahead a little further, maybe you'd of
looked a little closer in the willers."

To this Duke had nothing to say; and presently he loped on, leaving
Tom to ride slowly and turn the matter of the spotted yearling over
and over in his mind until he had reached some definite conclusion.

Tom had the name of being a dangerous man, but he had not earned it by
being hasty. His anger was to be feared because it smoldered long,
rather than because it exploded into quick violence. He wanted to see
the trail ahead of him--and just now he