et a slice of the property. I don't blame you for trying. It was
up to us to see that you didn't get away with it.

"But we don't want to play hog. If you'll admit before a notary that
you are not Will Bransford we'll hand you back the four thousand Dale
took from you, give you ten thousand in addition and safe conduct out
of the county. That strike you?"

Sanderson did not answer.

Silverthorn's face reddened. "You're a damned fool!" he sneered,
venomously. "We'll keep you in jail here for a thousand years, if
necessary. We'll do worse!

"Look here!" he suddenly said. But Sanderson did not turn.
Silverthorn rattled a paper.

"Here's a withdrawal slip on the Okar bank, calling for three thousand
two hundred dollars, signed by Will Bransford. Barney Owen drew the
money last night and blew it in gambling and drinking. He says he's
been signing Bransford's name--forging it--at your orders. The
signature he put on this paper is a dead ringer for the one on the
registry blank you gave Dale.

"Dale saw Owen sign that. That's why he knew you are not Will
Bransford. Understand? Maison will swear you signed the withdrawal
slip and got the money. We'll prove that you are not Bransford, and
you'll go to the Las Vegas pen for twenty years! Now, let's talk
business!"

Sanderson turned. There was a mirthless grin on his face. He spoke
loudly, calling the jailer.

When the latter appeared in the corridor beside Silverthorn, Sanderson
addressed him without looking at the other:

"You ain't on your job a heap, are you? There's a locoed coyote
barkin' at me through the door, there. Run him out, will you--he's
disturbin' me plenty."

He turned from the door, stretched himself on the cot, and with his
face to the wall listened while Silverthorn cursed.

CHAPTER XV

DALE PAYS A VISIT

Shortly after midnight Sanderson was sound asleep on the cot in the
cell when a strange, scraping noise awakened him. He lay still for a
long time, listening, until he discovered that the sound came from the
window. Then he sat up stealthily and looked around to see, framed in
the starlit gloom of the night, the face of Barney Owen, staring in
through the window at him.

The sight of Owen enraged Sanderson, but his curiosity drove him to the
window.

The little man was hanging to the iron bars; his neck muscles were
straining, his face was red and his eyes bright.

"Don't talk, now!" he warned. "The boss of t