osure, and as he spoke
his foot erased the telltale print. "I 'low there won't anybody go to the
pen for he'pin himself to Mr. Morse's gold dust. I don't give a cuss who
it was."

Norris laughed in his low, easy way. "I'm with you, Mr. Lee. We'll make a
thorough job while we're at it and mess up these other tracks. After that
we'll follow the ditch up and see if there's anything doing."

They remounted their broncos and rode them across the tracks several
times, then followed the lateral up, one on either side of the ditch,
their eyes fastened to the ground to see any evidence of a horse having
clambered over the bank. They drew in sight of the ranch house without
discovering what they were looking for. Lee's heart was in his mouth, for
he knew that he would see presently what his eye sought.

"I reckon the fellow went down instead of up," suggested Norris.

"No, he came up."

Lee had stopped and was studying wheel tracks that ran up from the ditch
to his ranch house. His face was very white and set. He pointed to them
with a shaking finger.

"There's where he went in the ditch, and there's where he came out."

Norris forded the stream, cast a casual eye on the double track, and
nodded. He was still in a fog of mystery, but the old man was already
fearing the worst.

He gulped out his fears tremblingly. For himself, he was of a flawless
nerve, but this touched nearer home than his own danger.

"Them wheel-tracks was made by my little gyurl's runabout, Phil."

"Good heavens!" The younger man drew rein sharply and stared at him. "You
don't think----"

He broke off, recalling the sharp, firm little foot-print on the edge of
the ditch some miles below.

"I don't reckon I know what to think. If she was in this, she's got some
good reason." A wave of passion suddenly swept the father. "By God! I'd
like to see the man that dares mix her name up in this."

Norris met this with his friendly smile. "You can't pick a row with me
about that, old man. I'm with you till the cows come home. But that ain't
quite the way to go at this business. First thing, we've got to wipe out
these tracks. How? Why, sheep! There's a bunch of three hundred in that
pasture. We'll drive the bunch down to the ditch and water them here.
_Savez?_"

"And wipe out the wheel-marks in the sand. Bully for you, Phil."

"That's the idea. After twelve hundred chisel feet have been over this
sand I reckon the wheel-tracks will be missing."

They