r soft, warm
cheek. "I see it does. It's a pity about you. I didn't suppose your
cousin Jack had it in him to spoil your beauty like that."

"Neither did I," he said, answering her smile. "I sure picked on the
wrong man. He's one handy lad with his dibs--put me down twice before
we decided to call it off. I like that young fellow."

"Better not like him too much. You may have to work against him yet."

"True enough," he admitted, falling grave again. "As to James, we'll
ride close herd on him for a while, but we'll ride wide. Looks to me
like he may have to face a jury an' fight for his life right soon."

"Do you think he killed your uncle?"

"I don't want to think so. He's a bad egg, I'm afraid. But my
father's sister was his mother. I'd hate to have to believe it."

"But in your heart you do believe it," she said gently.

He looked at her. "I'm afraid so. But that's a long way from knowing
it."

They parted at her boarding-house.

A man rose to meet Kirby when he stepped into the rotunda of his hotel.
He was a gaunt, broad-shouldered man with ragged eyebrows.

"Well, I came," he said, and his voice was harsh.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Olson. Come up to my room. We can talk there
more freely."

The Scandinavian rancher followed him to the elevator and from there to
his room.

"Why don't they arrest Hull?" he demanded as soon as the door was
closed.

"Not evidence enough."

"Suppose I can give evidence. Say I practically saw Hull do it. Would
they arrest him--or me?"

"They'd arrest him," Kirby answered. "They don't know you're the man
who wrote the threatening letter."

"Hmp!" grunted the rancher suspiciously. "That's what _you_ say, but
you're not the whole works."

Kirby offered a chair and a cigar. He sat down on the bed himself.
"Better spill your story to me, Olson. Two heads are better than one,"
he said carelessly.

The Swede's sullen eyes bored into him. Before that frank and engaging
smile his doubts lost force. "I got to take a chance. Might as well
be with you as any one."

The Wyoming man struck a match, held it for the use of his guest, then
lit his own cigar. For a few moments they smoked in silence. Kirby
leaned back easily against the head of the bed. He did not intend to
frighten the rancher by hurrying him.

"When Cunningham worked that crooked irrigation scheme of his on Dry
Valley, I reckon I was one of them that hollered the loudest. Prob'ly
I