had not come to shoot him.

"I'll keep this for you, Bill," he said soothingly, and dropped the
weapon into his coat pocket. "I'm going to take you up with me, for the
sake of the effect of that face of yours, looking the way it does right
now. But I'll do the talking, mind! It won't take long. We're going to
act some, too."

Their visit had no visible effect upon Rexhill, however, who was too
much master of himself to be caught off his guard in a game which had
reached the point of constant surprise. His manner was not conciliatory,
for the meeting was frankly hostile, but he did not appear to be
perturbed by it. He had not supposed that the extremes he had sanctioned
could be carried through without difficulty, and he was prepared to meet
any attack that might be offered by the enemy.

"Senator Rexhill," Trowbridge introduced himself, "you've never met me.
I'm from the Piah Creek country. My name is Trowbridge."

"Yes," the Senator nodded. "I've heard of you. I know your friend there
by sight." He lingered slightly over the word "friend" as he glanced
toward Santry, "There's a warrant out for him, I believe."

"Yes. There's a warrant out for one of your--friends, too, Tug Bailey,"
Trowbridge retorted dryly, hoping that something would eventuate from
his _repartee_; but nothing did. If the news surprised Rexhill, as it
must have, he did not show it. "I've just sworn it out," the rancher
continued, "but that's not why I'm here. I'm here to tell you that
Gordon Wade, whom you know, has been kidnaped."

Santry stifled an exclamation of rage in answer to a quick look from his
friend.

"Kidnaped from his own range in broad daylight," the latter went on. "I
represent his friends, who mean to find him right away, and it has
occurred to me that you may be able to assist us in our search."

"Just why has that idea occurred to you?" Rexhill asked calmly, as
though out of mere curiosity. "I'd like to know."

A bit baffled by this attitude of composure, Trowbridge hesitated, for
it was not at all what he had expected to combat. If the Senator had
flown into a passion, the cattleman would have responded with equal
heat; now he was less sure of himself and his ground. It was barely
possible, after all, that Tug Bailey had shot Jensen out of personal
spite; or, at the worst, had been the tool of Moran alone. One could
hardly associate the thought of murder with the very prosperous looking
gentleman, who so calmly faced them