ange we're feeding over." With a friendly good
night she turned towards the entrance.

Lingle rose with a look of desperation on his countenance.

"Just a minute." There was that in his voice which made her turn quickly
and look from one to the other in wonder.

Lingle had a feeling that his vocal cords had turned to wire, they moved
so stiffly, when he heard himself saying:

"Guess I'll have to ask you to take a ride with me to-morrow."

"Me?" Her eyes widened. "What for?"

The yellow flame flickered in the smudged chimney of the lantern on the
table, a bit of burning wood fell out from the front of the stove and
lay smoking on the dirt floor in front of it. Bowers stood rigid by the
basin where he had been washing his hands, with the water dripping from
his fingers.

In a frenzy to have it over the deputy blurted out harshly:

"Mormon Joe's been murdered!"

The girl gave a cry--sharp, anguished, as one might scream out with a
crushed finger.

Bowers advanced a step and demanded fiercely of Lingle:

"Don't you know nothin'--not no damned nothin'?"

Kate's face was marble.

"You mean--he's dead--he won't come back here--ever?"

"You've said it," the deputy replied, huskily.

Kate walked back unsteadily to the seat she had just vacated and her
head sank upon her folded arms on the table. She did not cry like a
woman, but with deep tearless sobs that lifted her shoulders.

The two men stood with their hands hanging awkwardly, looking at each
other. Then Bowers made a grimace and jerked his head towards the tent
entrance. The deputy obeyed the signal and went out on tip-toe with the
sheepherder following.

"She's got guts," said Bowers briefly.

"She'll need 'em," was the laconic answer.

CHAPTER X

THE BANK PUTS ON THE SCREWS

In the initial excitement it had seemed a simple matter to apprehend the
murderer of Mormon Joe with such clues as were furnished by the axe, the
rope, the shotgun and the button, which were found in the snow beneath
the window. But investigation showed that the axe and rope were no
different from scores of other axes and ropes in Prouty, and it was soon
recognized that the solution of the case hinged upon the ownership of
the gun and the finding of a motive for this peculiarly cowardly and
ingenious murder.

But no one could be found to identify the gun, nor could any amount of
inquiry unearth an enemy with a grudge sufficiently deep to inspire
murder.

Althou