ed. And
then he had been told it would be necessary for him to file an
affidavit and proof establishing his identity.

With Barney Owen looking on Sanderson was compelled to defer signing
the affidavit, for Sanderson remembered the letter from young
Bransford, bearing the younger Bransford's signature. The letter was
still in the dresser drawer in his room, and he would have to have it
beside him while he signed Bransford's name to the affidavit in order
to imitate Bransford's handwriting successfully. Therefore he asked
permission to take the affidavit home.

Pocketing the paper, after receiving the necessary permission,
Sanderson caught Owen looking at him with a smile. He scowled at the
little man.

"What's eatin' you?" he demanded.

"Curiosity," said the other. "Don't tell me you're too bashful to sign
your name in public."

They were mounting their horses when the little man spoke, and
Sanderson grinned coldly at him.

"You're a whole lot longer on talk than I like any of my friends to
be," he said.

"Then I'll cut out gassing promiscuous," grinned the latter.

Sanderson was troubled over the situation. To successfully keep Dale
from attacking his title to the ranch he must sign the affidavit and
return it to the court. He must imitate Will Bransford's signature to
prevent Mary Bransford from suspecting the deception--for at any time
she might decide to go to Las Vegas to look over the records there.

More, he must practice writing Bransford's signature until he could
imitate it without having to look at the original.

Determined to go to work at the deception instantly, Sanderson returned
to the ranchhouse, slipped into his room and locked the door, opened
the drawer and took out the package of letters.

The Bransford letter was missing! Half a dozen times he thumbed the
letters in the packages over before he would admit that the one for
which he was seeking was not there.

He stood for a time looking at the package of letters, bitterly
accusing himself. It was his own fault if the whole structure of
deception tumbled about his ears, for he should have taken the letter
when he had had an opportunity.

Mary Bransford had it, of course. The other letters, he supposed, she
cared less for than the one written by her brother.

For the twentieth time since his arrival at the ranch, Sanderson had an
impulse to ride away and leave Mary Bransford to fight the thing out
herself. But, as before,