A T O ripped open the envelope and read:

Dear Mr. Wadley:

I was held up last night by masked men and robbed. They took the
gold. I'm too sick to go farther.
Arthur Ridley.

The jaw of the Texas cattleman clamped. He rose abruptly. "I got
business on hand. A messenger of mine has been robbed of six thousand
dollars." He turned to the colored boy. "Where's the man who gave you
this?"

"At the Buffalo Corral, sah."

Wadley strode from the hotel, flung himself on a horse, and galloped
down the street toward the corral.

Young Ridley was lying on a pile of hay when his employer entered. His
heart was sick with fear and worry. For he knew now that his lack of
boldness had led him into a serious mistake. He had by his indecision
put himself in the power of Moore, and the chances were that the man was
in collusion with the gang that had held him up. He had made another
mistake in not going directly to Wadley with the news. The truth was
that he had not the nerve to face his employer. It was quite on the
cards that the old-timer might use a blacksnake whip on him. So he had
taken refuge in a plea of illness.

The cattleman took one look at him and understood. He reached down and
jerked the young fellow from the hay as if he had been a child. The
stomach muscles of the boy contracted with fear and the heart died
within him. Clint Wadley in anger was dangerous. In his youth he had
been a gun-fighter and the habit had never entirely been broken.

"I--I'm ill," the young fellow pleaded.

"You'll be sure enough ill if you don't watch out. I'll gamble on that.
Onload yore tale like shot off'n a shovel. Quit yore whinin'. I got no
time for it."

Arthur told his story. The cattleman fired at him crisp, keen questions.
He dragged from the trembling youth the when, where, and how of the
robbery. What kind of pilgrim was this fellow Moore? Was he tall? Short?
Dark? Bearded? Young? Old? What were the masked men like? Did they use
any names? Did he see their horses? Which way did they go?

The messenger made lame answers. Mostly he could only say, "I don't
know."

"You're a damned poor apology for a man--not worth the powder to blow
you up. You hadn't the sand to fight for the money entrusted to you, nor
the nerve to face me after you had lost it. Get out of here.
_Vamos!_ Don't ever let me hear yore smooth, glib tongue again."

The words of Wadley s