ch; and if it had"--he paused and gazed into the
fire, while the corners of his mouth twitched from side to side as if
forming his words, a habit of his when giving a decision--"yes, if it
had cost three times the amount, I should be more than satisfied."

The colour crept up under Billy's bronzed cheek.

"It makes me feel good--to hear you say this to me," he said. "It's
been a long job, but I drove things along the best I could. When
things got stuck in the mud there was nothing to do but jump in and
pull them out and get them started and moving, and I want you to know
that Freme--since his sweetheart made him sober--and old man Hite did
all they could. I could never have done it without them."

"I believe you, Billy," declared Thayor briskly. "You have done what
I knew you would. Ah, yes--you're right about those two good fellows,
Holt and Skinner. Their greeting to me this afternoon touched me
deeply. Why, even the old dog remembered me."

"Remembered you? Of course he did. Hite says the old dog has never got
over your killing that buck."

"And the old dog, I suppose, still talks to him?" laughed Thayor.

"I've never known Hite to lie," replied Holcomb with a grin.

"And now tell me about poor Dinsmore. I have watched the papers but I
have seen nothing of his arrest and so I suppose he is safe in Canada,
or is he still about here?"

"I think he is still in hiding, sir," replied Holcomb in an evasive
tone. The least said about Dinsmore the better--the better for
Dinsmore. His safety was in being entirely forgotten.

"And you haven't seen him?"

"No, not since we began work."

For some seconds Thayor drummed with his fingers on the arm of his
chair; then he said in a strangely serious tone--as if to himself:

"Dinsmore had to kill him, perhaps. That's the only way out sometimes,
and that's what would happen every time if I had my way."

Holcomb made no reply. No good could come to the hide-out by
stirring up his case. All his friends said he was dead; that is, to
strangers--some of whom might be sheriffs.

The talk now entered another channel--one more to Holcomb's liking.
"By the way, before I forget it"--here Thayor drew from his pocket a
package of letters--"how about this Mr. Steinberg, the dealer who sold
us the horses?" he inquired.

"Who, Bergstein?"

"Yes, this Mr. Bergstein, as you call him. I gather from your last
letter--I thought I had it with me," he said, searching hurriedly
among the