ing to yarn some--mebbe. You get right out to the ranch, boy.
An' don't get around here till I send you word."

The doctor stood for a moment.

"He needs hangin'," he declared. Then, in the cheery starlight, he
looked into the two men's faces and grinned. He had a great knowledge
of the men of his village. "Well, so long," he added, and abruptly
strode away.

The moment he had gone Jim protested.

"Peter," he said, "we've got to help him; we've got to get him clear
of that saloon. It's not because I like him or want----"

"Just so. But we got to help him. So, you get right out to the ranch,
an'--leave him to me."

CHAPTER XVI

DEVIL DRIVEN

The saloon was full and Rocket was busy. His face glowed with funereal
happiness. He was sombrely delighted at the rapidity with which the
tide of dollars was flowing across his dingy counter. He was more than
ordinarily interested, too, which was somewhat remarkable.

The fact was Barnriff's scandal had received a fillip in a fresh and
unprecedented direction. McLagan had been in, bringing two of his
cow-punchers with him. The hot-headed Irishman had crashed into the
midst of Barnriff with such a splash that it set the store of public
comment hissing and spluttering, and raised a perfect roar of
astonishment and outraged rectitude.

He had arrived late, after the usual evening game had started. His
first inquiry was for Jim Thorpe, and he cursed liberally when told
that nobody had seen him. Then he fired his angry story at the
assembled company of villagers, and passed on to make camp at a rival
ranch five miles to the northwest.

It was a rapidly told story full of lurid trimmings, and, judging by
its force, came from his heart.

"It's duffing, boys," he cried, with an oath, and a thump on the bar
which set the glasses, filled at his expense, rattling. "Dogone
cattle-duffing! Can you beat it? The first in five year, since Curly
Sanders got gay, and then spent a vacation treadin' air. We got first
wind of it nigh a week back, Jim an' me. We missed a bunch o' backward
calves. We let 'em run this spring round-up, guessin' we'd round 'em
up come the fall. Well, say, Jim went to git a look at 'em--they was
way back there by the foot-hills, in a low hollow--an' not a blame
trace or track of 'em could he locate. We just guessed they was
'stray,' and started in to round 'em up. Well, the boys has been busy
nigh on a week, an' here, this sundown, Nat Pauley an' Jim B