g a greasewood shrub on a pile of brush. His mind, Kirby
could see, was busy with the problem before it. The man's caution and
his vindictive desire for vengeance were at war. He knew something,
evidence that would tend to incriminate Hull, and he was afraid to
bring it to the light of day. He worked automatically, and the man on
horseback watched him. On that sullen face Kirby could read fury,
hatred, circumspection, suspicion, the lust for revenge.

The man's anger barked at Lane. "Well, what you waitin' for?" he asked
harshly.

"Nothin'. I'm goin' now." He wrote his Denver address on a card. "If
you find there is any evidence against Hull an' want to talk it over,
perhaps you'd rather come to me than the police. I'm like you. If
Hull did it I want him found guilty. So long."

He handed Olson his card. The man tossed it away. Kirby turned his
horse toward town. Five minutes later he looked back. The settler had
walked across to the place where he had thrown the card and was
apparently picking it up.

The man from Wyoming smiled. He had a very strong hunch that Olson
would call on him within a week or ten days. Of course he was
disappointed, but he knew the game had to be played with patience. At
least he had learned something. The man had in his possession evidence
vitally important. Kirby meant to get that evidence from him somehow
by hook or crook.

What was it the man knew? Was it possible he could have killed
Cunningham himself and be trying to throw the blame of it on Hull? Was
that why he was afraid to come out in the open with what testimony he
had? Kirby could not forget the bitter hatred of Cunningham the farmer
cherished. That hatred extended to Hull. What a sweet revenge to kill
one enemy and let the other one hang for the crime!

A detail jumped to his mind. Olson had picked up a stone and thrown it
to the rock pile--with his left hand.

CHAPTER XVIII

"BURNIN' A HOLE IN MY POCKET"

Cole Sanborn passed through the Welcome Arch at the station carrying an
imitation-leather suitcase. He did not take a car, but walked up
Seventeenth Avenue as far as the Markham Hotel. Here he registered,
left his luggage, and made some inquiries over the telephone.

Thirty minutes later he was shaking hands with Kirby Lane.

"You dawg-goned old hellamile, what you mean comin' down here an'
gettin' throwed in the calaboose?" he demanded, thumping his friend on
the shoulder with a