Russell. "And of
course he can."

"And where he spent that two hours after the hold-up before he came to
town. That'll have to be explained too," said Bob.

"Oh, Em he'll be able to explain that all right," decided Steve
cheerfully.

"Where is Crawford now?" asked Dave. "He hasn't been arrested, has he?"

"Not yet. But he's bein' watched. Soon as he showed up at the bank the
sheriff asked to look at his six-shooter. Two cartridges had been fired.
One of the passengers on the stage told me two shots was fired from a
six-gun by the boss hold-up. The second one killed old Tim Harrigan."

"Did they accuse Crawford of the killing?"

"Not directly. He was asked to explain. I ain't heard what his story
was."

"We'd better go to his house and talk with him," suggested Hart. "Maybe
he can give as good an alibi as you, Dave."

"You and I will go straight there," decided Sanders. "Steve, get three
saddle horses. We'll ride out to the Bend and see what we can learn on
the ground."

"I'll cash my chips, get the broncs, and meet you lads at Crawford's,"
said Russell promptly.

CHAPTER XXII

NUMBER THREE COMES IN

Joyce opened the door to the knock of the young men. At sight of them her
face lit.

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" she cried, tears in her voice. She caught
her hands together in a convulsive little gesture. "Isn't it dreadful?
I've been afraid all the time that something awful would happen--and
now it has."

"Don't you worry, Miss Joyce," Bob told her cheerfully. "We ain't gonna
let anything happen to yore paw. We aim to get busy right away and run
this thing down. Looks like a frame-up. If it is, you betcha we'll get
at the truth."

"Will you? Can you?" She turned to Dave in appeal, eyes starlike in a
face that was a white and shining oval in the semi-darkness.

"We'll try," he said simply.

Something in the way he said it, in the quiet reticence of his promise,
sent courage flowing to her heart. She had called on him once before, and
he had answered splendidly and recklessly.

"Where's Mr. Crawford?" asked Bob.

"He's in the sitting-room. Come right in."

Her father was sitting in a big chair, one leg thrown carelessly over the
arm. He was smoking a cigar composedly.

"Come in, boys," he called. "Reckon you've heard that I'm a stage rustler
and a murderer."

Joyce cried out at this, the wide, mobile mouth trembling.

"Just now. At the Gusher," said Bob. "They didn't arrest you?"