before you
made a fool of yourself," Sanderson told him, pityingly. "An' me
tellin' you what I think of you won't relieve my feelin's a whole lot,
for there ain't words enough layin' around loose.

"What I want to know is this: did you go clean loco, or do you remember
anything that happened to you? Do you know who got the money you drew
from the bank?"

"Dale," answered Owen. "He had that, for I remember him counting it in
the back room of the hotel. There was more, too; I heard him telling
Silverthorn there was about seven thousand in all. Silverthorn wanted
him to put it all back in the bank, but Dale said there was just enough
for him to meet his pay-roll--that he owed his men a lot of back pay.
He took it with him."

"My four thousand," said Sanderson, shortly.

"Yours?" Owen paled.

"Dale lifted my money belt," Sanderson returned. "I was wondering what
he did with it. So that's what."

He relapsed into a grim silence, and Owen did not speak again.

They rode several miles in that fashion--Owen keeping his horse
slightly behind Sanderson's, his gaze on the other's face, his own
white with remorse and anxiety.

At last he heard Sanderson laugh, and the sound of it made him grit his
teeth in impotent agony.

"Sanderson," he said, gulping, "I'm sorry."

"Sure," returned the other. "If I hadn't wised up to that quite a
spell ago, you'd be back on the trail, waitin' for some coyote to come
along an' get his supper."

They rode in silence for a long time. They came to the gentle slope of
the basin and began to climb it.

A dozen times Owen rode close to Sanderson, his lips trembling over
unuttered words, but each time he dropped back without speaking. His
eyes, fixed worshipfully on the back of the big, silent man ahead of
him, were glowing with anxiety and wonder.

In the ghostly darkness of the time before the gray forerunner of the
dawn appears on the horizon they came in sight of the Double A
ranchhouse.

Sanderson was still leading. The ranchhouse burst upon his vision as
his horse topped a rise that had obscured his view of the ranchhouse,
and he saw it, clearly outlined.

Riding down the slope of the rise he smiled. For there was a light in
one of the ranchhouse windows. Mary had left it burn on his account,
he divined.

He halted and allowed Owen to come near him.

"Mary ain't to hear about this deal tonight," he told the little man.
"Not a peep--understand?"

Without waiti