Silverthorn.

Silverthorn nodded, cursing.

"You don't need to feel conceited," laughed Dale; "he's been to see me,
too."

Dale related what had happened on the street some time before, and
Silverthorn's scowl deepened.

"There are times when you don't seem to be able to think at all, Dale!"
he declared. "After this, when you decide to do a thing, see me
first--or Maison. The last thing we want to happen right now is to
have this fake Bransford killed."

"Why?"

"I've just got word from Las Vegas that he's submitted his affidavit
establishing his identity, and that the court has accepted it. That
settles the matter until--or unless--we can get evidence to the
contrary. And if he dies without us getting that evidence we are
through."

"Him dyin' would make things sure for us," contended Dale. "Mary
Bransford wouldn't have any claim--us havin' proof that she ain't a
Bransford."

"This fellow is no fool," declared Silverthorn. "Suppose he's wise to
us, which he might be, and he has willed the property to the girl.
Where would we be, not being able to prove that he isn't Will
Bransford?"

Dale meditated. Then he made a wry face. "That's right," he finally
admitted. He made a gesture of futility. "I reckon I'll let you do
the plannin' after this."

"All right," said Silverthorn, mollified. "Have you set Morley on
Barney Owen?"

"Owen was goin' right strong a few minutes after this Bransford guy
left him," grinned Dale.

"All right," said Silverthorn, "go ahead the way we planned it. But
don't have our friend killed."

When Sanderson entered the hotel the clerk was alone in the office
pondering over the register.

Dusk had fallen, and the light in the office was rather dim. Through
the archway connecting the office with the saloon came a broad beam of
light from a number of kerosene lamps. From beyond the archway issued
the buzz of voices and the clink of glasses; peering through the
opening Sanderson could see that the barroom was crowded.

Sanderson mounted the stairs leading from the office. When he had left
Owen, the latter had told Sanderson that it was his intention to spend
the time until the return of his friend in reading.

Owen, however, was not in the room. Sanderson descended the stairs,
walked to the archway that led into the saloon, and looked inside. In
a rear corner of the barroom he saw Owen, seated at a table with
several other men. Owen's face was flushed; he was