king as he climbed the fence
at a point near by and sat on the top rail, idly swinging his legs.

Sanderson had conceived a liking for Owen. There was something about
the little man that invited it. He was little, and manly despite his
bodily defects. But there was a suggestion of effeminacy mingling with
the manliness of him that aroused the protective instinct in Sanderson.

In a big man the suggestion of effeminacy would have been disgusting,
and Sanderson's first action as owner of the ranch would have been to
discharge such a man instantly. But in Sanderson's heart had come a
spirit of tolerance toward the little man, for he felt that the
effeminacy had resulted from his afflictions.

He was a querulous semi-invalid, trying bravely to imitate his vigorous
and healthy friends.

"Thinking it over?" he queried, looking down at Sanderson.

"Thinkin' what over?"

"Well, just things," grinned the little man. "For one thing, I suppose
you are trying to decide why you didn't sign your name--over in Las
Vegas."

Sanderson grinned mildly, but did not answer. He felt more at ease
now, and the little man's impertinences did not bother him so much as
formerly. He looked up, however, startled, when Owen said slowly:

"Do you want me to tell you why you didn't sign Will Bransford's name
to the affidavit?"

Sanderson's eyes did not waver as they met Owen's.

"Tell me," he said evenly.

"Because you are not Will Bransford," said the little man.

Sanderson did not move; nor did he remove his gaze from the face of the
little man. He was not conscious of any emotion whatever. For now
that he had determined to stay at the Double A no matter what happened,
discovery did not alarm him. He grinned at the little man,
deliberately, with a taunting smile that the other could not fail to
understand.

"You're a wise guy, eh?" he said. "Well, spring it. I'm anxious to
know how you got next to me."

"You ain't sore, then?"

"Not, none."

"I was hoping you wouldn't be," eagerly said the little man, "for I
don't want you to hit the breeze just now. I know you are not Will
Bransford because I know Bransford intimately. I was his chum for
several years. He could drink as much as I. He was lazy and
shiftless, but I liked him. We were together in Tucson--and in other
places in Arizona. Texas, too. We never amounted to much. Do you
need to know any more? I can tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"More," grinned th