he coroner, an important little man,
examined the body, the horse and the saddle, and there was the usual
formula of swearing in a jury. The inquest was rather short, since
there was only one witness to testify, and Lone merely told how he had
discovered the horse there by the creek, and that the body had not been
moved from where he found it.

Swan went over to where Lone, anxious to get away from the place, was
untying his horse after the jury had officially named the death an
accident.

"I guess those horses could be turned loose," he began without prelude.
"What you think, Lone? I been to Thurman's ranch, and I don't find
anybody. Some horses in a corral, and pigs in a pen, and chickens. I
guess Thurman was living alone. Should I tell the coroner that?"

"I dunno," Lone replied shortly. "You might speak to the sheriff. I
reckon he's the man to take charge of things."

"It's bad business, getting killed," Swan said vaguely. "It makes me
feel damn sorry when I go to that ranch. There's the horses waiting
for breakfast--and Thurman, he's dead over here and can't feed his pigs
and his chickens. It's a white cat over there that comes to meet me
and rubs my leg and purrs like it's lonesome. That's a nice ranch he's
got, too. Now what becomes of that ranch? What you think, Lone?"

"Hell, how should I know?" Lone scowled at him from the saddle and
rode away, leaving Swan standing there staring after him. He turned
away to find the sheriff and almost collided with Brit Hunter, who was
glancing speculatively from him to Lone Morgan. Swan stopped and put
out his hand to shake.

"Lone says I should tell the sheriff I could look after Fred Thurman's
ranch. What you think, Mr Hunter?"

"Good idea, I guess. Somebody'll have to. They can't----" He checked
himself. "You got a horse? I'll ride over with yuh, maybe."

"I got legs," Swan returned laconically. "They don't get scared, Mr
Hunter, and maybe kill me sometime. You could tell the sheriff I'm
government hunter and honest man, and I take good care of things. You
could do that, please?"

"Sure," said Brit and rode over to where the sheriff was standing.

The sheriff listened, nodded, beckoned to Swan. "The court'll have to
settle up the estate and find his heirs, if he's got any. But you look
after things--what's your name? Vjolmar--how yuh spell it? I'll swear
you in as a deputy. Good Lord, you're a husky son-of-a-gun!" The
sheriff's e