out the tinhorns. Their play would be to kill
and make a quick getaway. There wouldn't be any object in their taking
a prisoner away off to the Flats. If this man was Dave, Blair and
Smith are eliminated from the list of suspects. That leaves the
Rutherfords."

"But you don't know that this was Dingwell."

"That's where you come in, me brave Sherlock. Dave's friends can't
move to help him. You see, they're all known men. It might be the end
of Dave if they lifted a finger. But you're not known to the
Rutherfords. You slip in over Wagon Wheel Gap to Huerfano Park, pick
up what you can, and come out to Battle Butte with your news."

"You mean--spy on them?"

"Of coorse."

"But what if they suspected me?"

"Then your heirs at law would collect the insurance," Ryan told him
composedly.

Excuses poured out of young Beaudry one on top of another. "No, I
can't go. I won't mix up in it. It's not my affair. Besides, I can't
get away from my business."

"I see your business keeps you jumping," dryly commented the Irishman.
"And you know best whether it's your affair."

Beaudry could have stood it better if the man had railed at him, if he
had put up an argument to show why he must come to the aid of the
friend who had helped him. This cool, contemptuous dismissal of him
stung. He began to pace the room in rising excitement.

"I hate that country up there. I've got no use for it. It killed my
mother just as surely as it did my father. I left there when I was a
child, but I'll never forget that dreadful day seventeen years ago.
Sometimes I wake in bed out of some devil's nightmare and live it over.
Why should I go back to that bloody battleground? Hasn't it cost me
enough already? It's easy for you to come and tell me to go to
Huerfano Park--"

"Hold your horses, Mr. Beaudry. I'm not tellin' you to go. I've laid
the facts before ye. Go or stay as you please."

"That's all very well," snapped back the young man. "But I know what
you'll think of me if I don't go."

"What you'll think of yourself matters more. I haven't got to live
with ye for forty years."

Roy Beaudry writhed. He was sensitive and high-strung.
Temperamentally he coveted the good opinion of those about him.
Moreover, he wanted to deserve it. No man had ever spoken to him in
just the tone of this little Irish cowpuncher, who had come out of
nowhere into his life and brought to him his first big problem for
decision. Even