colote,
Big Run, Dos Hermanos and San Ramon. He knew that only recently,
within the week, Courtot had returned from his pilgrimage; that he had
come up to Big Run from King Canon way. He knew that the man who had
fled Superstition Pool had turned out in the direction of King Canon,
and that that man might or might not have been Jim Courtot. Finally,
he had Sandy Weaver's word for it that Courtot went deathly-white when
he heard of the slain calf and the tracks, and that forthwith Courtot
had again disappeared. The imprint of a man's bare foot spelled an
Indian from the northern wastes, and Courtot, during the three months
of his disappearance, had had ample time to go far into the north. To
Howard it seemed a simple thing to imagine that Courtot had committed
some deed which had brought after him the unsleeping vengeance of a
desert Indian.

In San Juan Howard found a representative of Doan, Rockwell and Haight,
the cattle buyers, awaiting him; and the same day the deal was
completed, a cheque placed in his hands and the cattle turned over to
the buyers' drivers. His men he dismissed to their own devices,
knowing that they would amuse themselves in San Juan, perhaps stir up a
fight with a crowd of miners, and thereafter journey homeward, fully
content. They were not to wait for him, as he had business to delay
him a day or so. From the corrals he went to the bank, placing his
cheque for collection with his old friend, John Engle. Thereafter,
while his horse rested and enjoyed its barley at the stables, he turned
to the Casa Blanca. For it was always possible that Jim Courtot was
there.

As he stepped in at the deep, wide doorway Howard's hat was low-drawn,
its brim shading his eyes, and he was ready to step swiftly to right or
left, to spring forward or back, to shoot quickly if shooting were in
the cards. But he knew upon the moment that Courtot was not here. At
the bar were his own men ranged up thirstily; they saw him and called
to him and had no warning to give. So he passed on down the long room
until he stopped at a little table where three men sat. One of them, a
thick, squat fellow with a florid face and small mean eyes, looked up
at him and glowered.

'Where's Courtot, Yates?' asked Howard coolly.

Yates stared and finally shrugged.

'Left town day before yesterday,' he replied shortly.

'So he was here? I heard he wanted to see me. Know which way he has
gone?'

Yates studied him keenl