pened to let it out that I was riding this way this morning on my
way to Dry Town. So Jimmie slipped me the letter! Read it."

Thornton took it, wondering. The envelope was sealed and much soiled
where Jimmie Clayton's hand had closed the mucilaged flap. He tore it
open and read almost at a glance:

Deere buck come the same place tonight I want to put you wise. Theare is
sum danger to you buck. Keap your eyes open on the way. I will be there
late tonight.

j.C.

Thornton looked up to see the twinkling eyes of Two-Hand Billy Comstock
watching him.

"You had better tell me what he says," said Comstock coolly. "I don't
know but that I should have been well within my rights to open it, eh?
But I hate to open another man's private mail."

Thornton hesitated.

He must not forget that Comstock was an officer--that even now he was
upon a state errand--that it was his duty to bring such men as Jimmie
Clayton to justice. He must not forget that Clayton had been a friend to
him--or, at least, that he had credited the crook with a feeling of
friendship and the care of a friend.

True, Comstock, who seemed to know everything, had said in a
matter-of-fact way that it had been Jimmie Clayton who had shot him that
night between Juarez and El Paso. But nothing was proven. He had long
thought of Clayton as a man to whom he owed a debt of gratitude, and now
with the man, hunted as he was, his sympathy naturally went out to him,
evil-doer as he knew him to be.

Evidently Comstock read what was passing in the cowboy's mind.

"I'm not asking you to squeal on him, Buck," he said quietly. "Look
here, I could have taken him in last night if I had wanted to. I could
have got him a week ago if I had wanted him. But I didn't want him--I
don't want him now. I'm hunting bigger game."

Still Thornton hesitated, but now his hesitation was brief. He swung his
horse around toward the cabin.

"Let's ride back, Comstock," he said shortly. "I want a good long talk
with you."

Not another word about the matter did either man say as they unsaddled
or as they went up the knoll to the cabin. Not a word until the
fragrance of boiling coffee and frying bacon went out to mingle with the
freshness of the new day. Then as they sat at table and Comstock began
to soak the biscuits Thornton had made in the bacon gravy, they looked
at each other, and their eyes were alike grave and equally stern.

"First thing," began Comstock, "let me finish my news.