"Maybe it was, though." Jean was turning crafty. She would pretend to
be interested in the letter, and trip Art somehow when he was off his
guard. "Are you sure that it was the day before--you left?"

"Yes." Some high talk in the street caught his attention, and Art
turned and looked down. Jean caught at the chance to study his averted
face, but she could not read innocence or guilt there. Art, she
decided, was not as transparent as she had always believed him to be.
He turned back and met her look. "I know it was the day before. Why?"

"Oh, I wondered. Dad didn't say-- What did he do with it--the letter?"

"He opened it and read it." A smile of amused understanding of her
finesse curled Art's lips. "And he stuck it in the pocket of his chaps
and went on to wherever he was going." His eyes challenged her
impishly.

"And it was from Uncle Carl, you say?"

Art hesitated, and the smile left his lips. "It--it was from Carl,
yes. Why?"

"Oh, I just wondered." Jean was wondering why he had stopped smiling,
all at once, and why he hesitated. Was he afraid he was going to
contradict himself about the day or the errand? Or was he afraid she
would ask her Uncle Carl, and find that there was no letter?

"Why don't you ask your dad, if you are so anxious to know all about
it?" Art demanded abruptly. "Anyway, that's the last time I was ever
over there."

"Ask dad!" Jean's anger flamed out suddenly. "Art Osgood, when I think
of dad, I wonder why I don't shoot you! I wonder how you dare sit
there and look me in the face. Ask dad! Dad, who is paying with his
life and all that's worth while in life, for that murder that you
deny--"

"What's that? Paying how?" Art leaned toward her; and now his face
was hard and hostile, and so were his eyes.

"Paying! You know how he is paying! Paying in Deer Lodge
penitentiary--"

"Who? YOUR FATHER?" Had Art been ready to spring at her and catch her
by the throat, he would not have looked much different.

"My father!" Jean's voice broke upon the word. "And you--" She did
not attempt to finish the charge.

Art sat looking at her with a queer intensity. "Your father!" he
repeated. "Aleck! I never knew that, Jean. Take my word, I never
knew that!" He seemed to be thinking pretty fast. "Where's Carl at?"
he asked irrelevantly.

"Uncle Carl? He's home, running both ranches. I--I never could make
Uncle Carl see that you must have been the one."

"Be