ightin' yet with the Fillmore outfit?"

"No, not real fightin'. I caught 'em puttin' a branded steer into one
of my herds, so they could say I stole it, about a week ago, and Will
Whittaker and I exchanged compliments over the affair."

As he spoke a tall, gray-haired man, riding a sweating horse at a hard
gallop, rushed up the street and dismounted on the opposite side. His
thin, pale face bore a look of angry excitement.

"What's the matter with Colonel Whittaker?" exclaimed Ellhorn. "He
looks as if he'd heard the devil behind him!"

Whittaker had spoken to a man in the doorway of an office bearing the
sign, "Fillmore Cattle Company," and already several others had
gathered around the two and all were listening eagerly.

"Something's happened, boys," said Mead, as they watched the group
across the way. "They told me in Muletown that Colonel Whittaker had
passed through there the day before on his way to the ranch."

Just then Miss Delarue came up the sidewalk leading the flaxen-haired
child, and as she passed the three men she smiled a pleasant
recognition to Ellhorn and Mead.

"Who's she?" Tuttle asked, gazing after her admiringly.

"Why, Frenchy Delarue's daughter!" Ellhorn answered. "Didn't you ever
see her before? That's queer. You remember Delarue, the Frenchman who
has the store up the street a-ways and loves to hear himself talk so
well. He came here two years ago with a sick wife. She was an
Englishwoman and the girl looks just like her. She died in a little
while and the daughter has taken care of the kid ever since as if she
was its mother. She's a fine girl."

"She's mighty fine lookin', anyway," Tuttle declared.

"Well, boys," said Mead, "I'm goin' to my room to slick up. If you
find out what the excitement's about, come over and tell me."

"I reckon if Emerson was rich he'd be a dude," said Ellhorn, looking
meditatively after Mead. "He keeps a room and his best duds here all
the time, and the first thing he does after he strikes town is to go
and put on a bald-faced shirt and a long-tailed coat. He don't even
stop to take a drink first."

The crowd across the street had increased, and the men who composed it
were talking in low, excited tones. As Emerson Mead walked away many
turned to look at him, and significant glances were sent over the way
to Ellhorn and Tuttle, who still stood on the sidewalk. They stopped a
man who was hurrying across the street and asked him what the
excitement was a