ent off on the gallop in
the same direction.

He came upon his friend at Alamo Springs, ten miles away. This was the
best water hole on Mead's ranch, and, indeed, the best in all that
part of the Fernandez mountains, and was the one which the Fillmore
Company particularly coveted. Its copious yield of water never
diminished, and around the reservoir which Mead had constructed, half
a mile below the spring, a goodly grove of young cottonwoods, which he
had planted, made for the cattle a cool retreat from midday suns.

Tuttle found Mead standing beside the reservoir, flicking the water
with his quirt, while the horse, with dropped bridle, waited meekly
beside him. Tom dismounted and stood by Mead's side, making some
remark about the cattle that were grazing within sight.

"Tommy," Emerson said abruptly, "I've about decided that I'll give up
this fight, let the Fillmore folks have the damned place for what they
will give, and pull my freight."

Tom looked surprised at this unheralded proposition, but paid no
further attention to it. Instead, he plunged at once into the subject
that concerned him.

"Emerson, what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," Mead replied, looking at the horizon.

"Emerson, you're lying, and you know it."

"Well, then, nothing that can be helped."

"How do you know it can't?"

Mead shrugged his shoulders and rested his hand upon his horse's neck.
It straightway cuddled its head against his body and began nosing his
pockets. Mead brought out a lump of sugar and made the beast nod its
age for the reward. Tom watched him helplessly, noting the hopeless,
gloomy look on his face, and wondered what he ought to do or say. He
wished Nick had come along. Nick never was at a loss for words. But
his great love came to his rescue and he blurted out:

"Have you tried to do anything?"

"It's no use. There's nothing to be done. It's something that can't be
helped, and I'd better just get out."

"Can't I--can't Nick and me do anything?"

"No."

Tom Tuttle was discouraged by this answer, for he knew that it meant
that the trouble, whatever it was, must be beyond the help of rifles
and revolvers. Still, he thought that it must have some connection
with the Whittaker murder, and he guessed that Mead was in fear of
something--discovery, apprehension, the result of a trial--that he
meant to get rid of the whole thing by quietly leaving the country.
Tom's brain required several minutes in which to reach