ite as far as you think."

"Well, if they didn't do it, who could have? You've been over the ground
more than any one else. Have you found anything to hang a whisper of
suspicion on?"

Lowell shook his head.

"Nothing to talk about, but there are some things, indefinite enough,
perhaps, that make me hesitate about believing the Indians to be
guilty."

"How about McFann? He's got the nerve, all right."

"Yes, McFann would kill if it came to a showdown. There's enough Indian
in him, too, to explain the staking-down."

"He admits he was on the scene of the murder."

"Yes, and his admission strengthens me in the belief that he's telling
the truth, or at least that he had no part in the actual killing. If he
were guilty, he'd deny being within miles of the spot."

"Mebbe you're right," said the sheriff, rising and turning his hat in
his hand and methodically prodding new and geometrically perfect
indentations in its high crown, "but you've got a strong popular opinion
to buck. Most people believe them Injuns and the breed have a guilty
knowledge of the murder."

"When you get twelve men in the jury box saying the same thing," replied
Lowell, "that's going to settle it. But until then I'm considering the
case open."

* * * * *

Jim McFann's camp was in the loneliest of many lonely draws in the
sage-gray uplands where the foothills and plains meet. It was not a camp
that would appeal to the luxury-loving. In fact, one might almost fall
over it in the brush before knowing that a camp was there. A "tarp" bed
was spread on the hard, sun-cracked soil. A saddle was near by. There
was a frying-pan or two at the edge of a dead fire. A pack-animal and
saddle horse stood disconsolately in the greasewood, getting what
slender grazing was available, but not being allowed to wander far. It
was the camp of one who "traveled light" and was ready to go at an
instant's notice.

So well hidden was the half-breed that, in spite of explicit directions
that had been given by Bill Talpers, Andy Wolters had a difficult time
in finding the camp. Talpers had sent Andy as his emissary, bearing grub
and tobacco and a bottle of whiskey to the half-breed. Andy had turned
and twisted most of the morning in the monotony of sage. Song had died
upon his lips as the sun had beaten upon him with all its unclouded
vigor.

Andy did not know it, but for an hour he had been under the scrutiny of
the half-breed, who