ner in the district. That should be enough to awaken
the law along the railroad without help from Thomas, and Trowbridge knew
that such action would be backed up by his associates.

He had no trouble on this score, however, for Sheriff Thomas was away on
the trail of a horse-thief, and the deputy in charge of the jail was of
sturdier character than his chief.

"Will I help you, Lem?" he exclaimed. "Say, will a cat drink milk? You
bet I'll help you. Between you and me, I've been so damned ashamed of
what's been doing in this here office lately that I'm aching for a
chance to square myself. I'll send them wires off immediate."

"I reckon you're due to be the next Sheriff in this county, Steve,"
Trowbridge responded gratefully. "There's going to be a change here
before long."

"That so? Well, I ain't sayin' that I'd refuse, but I ain't doin' this
as no favor, either, you understand. I'm doin' it because it's the law,
the good old-fashioned, honest to Gawd, s'help me die, law!"

"That's the kind we want here--that, or no kind. So long, Steve!"

With a nod of relief, Trowbridge left the jail, well-satisfied that he
had done a good turn for Wade, and pleased with himself for having lived
so well up to the standards set by the detectives of popular fiction.
Since Bailey had not had time to reach the railroad, his arrest was now
almost a certainty, and once he was back in Crawling Water, a bucket of
hot tar and a bundle of feathers, with a promise of immunity for
himself, would doubtless be sufficient to extract a confession from him
which would implicate Rexhill and Moran.

Feeling that he had earned the refreshment of a drink, the cattleman was
about to enter the hotel when, to his consternation, he saw tearing
madly down the street toward him Bill Santry, on a horse that had
evidently been ridden to the very last spurt of endurance. He ran
forward at once, for the appearance of the old man in Crawling Water,
with a warrant for murder hanging over his head, could only mean that
some tragedy had happened at the ranch.

"Hello, Lem!" Santry greeted him. "You're just the man I'm lookin' for."

"What's the trouble?" Trowbridge demanded.

"The boy!" The old plainsman slid from his horse, which could hardly
keep its feet, but was scarcely more spent in body than its rider was in
nerve. His face was twitching in a way that might have been ludicrous
but for its significance. "They've ambushed him, I reckon. I come
straight