me you
take a lot of interest in this. Who are you, anyhow?"

"My name is Kirby Lane."

"Nephew of the old man?"

"Yes."

Olson gave a snort of dry, splenetic laughter. "And you're out here
sellin' registered Herefords."

"I have some for sale. But that's not why I came to see you."

"Why did you come, then?" asked the Scandinavian, his blue eyes hard
and defiant.

"I wanted to have a look at the man who wrote the note to James
Cunningham threatenin' to dry-gulch him if he ever came to Dry Valley
again."

It was a center shot. Kirby was sure of it. He read it in the man's
face before anger began to gather in it.

"I'm the man who wrote that letter, am I?" The lips of Olson were
drawn back in a vicious snarl.

"You're the man."

"You can prove that, o' course."

"Yes."

"How?"

"By your handwritin'. I've seen three specimens of it to-day."

"Where?"

"One at the court-house, one at the bank that holds your note, an' the
third at the office of the 'Enterprise.' You wrote an article urgin'
the Dry Valley people to fight Cunningham. That article, in your own
handwritin', is in my pocket right now."

"I didn't tell them to gun him, did I?"

"That's not the point. What I'm gettin' at is that the same man wrote
the article that wrote the letter to Cunningham."

"Prove it! Prove it!"

"The paper used in both cases was torn from the same tablet. The
writin' is the same."

"You've got a nerve to come out here an' tell me I'm the man that
killed Cunningham," Olson flung out, his face flushing darkly.

"I'm not sayin' that."

"What are you sayin', then? Shoot it at me straight."

"If I thought you had killed Cunningham I wouldn't be here now. What I
thought when I came was that you might know somethin' about it. I
didn't come out here to trap you. My idea is that Hull did it. But
I've made up my mind you're hidin' somethin'. I'm sure of it. You as
good as told me so. What is it?" Kirby, resting easy in the saddle
with his weight on one stirrup, looked straight into the rancher's eyes
as he asked the question.

"I'd be likely to tell you if I was, wouldn't I?" jeered Olson.

"Why not? Better tell me than wait for the police to third-degree you.
If you're not in this killin' why not tell what you know? I've told my
story."

"After they spotted you in the court-room," the farmer retorted. "An'
how do I know you told all you know? Mebbe you're keepin' secrets,
too."

Ki