's a dead ringer for Spottie. He measured the
tracks of your horse's left front foot--the bad hoof, you know, an' he
made a shoe exactly the same as Spottie wears. Also, he made some kind
of a contraption that's like the end of your crutch. These he packs with
him. I saw him ride across the pasture to hide his tracks, climb up the
sage for the same reason, an' then hide in that grove of aspens over
there near the trail you use. Here, you can bet, he changed shoes on the
left front foot of his horse. Then he took to the trail, an' he left
tracks for a while, an' then he was careful to hide them again. He stole
his father's stock an' drove it up over the grassy benches where even
you or I couldn't track him next day. But up on top, when it suited him,
he left some horse tracks, an' in the mud near a spring-hole he gets off
his horse, steppin' with one foot--an' makin' little circles with dots
like those made by the end of your crutch. Then 'way over in the woods
there's a cabin where he meets his accomplices. Here he leaves the same
horse tracks an' crutch tracks.... Simple as a b c, Wils, when you see
how he did it. But I'll tell you straight--if I hadn't been suspicious
of Buster Jack--that trick of his would have made you a rustler!"

"Damn him!" hissed the cowboy, in utter consternation and fury.

"Ahuh! That's my sentiment exactly."

"I swore to Collie I'd never kill him!"

"Sure you did, son. An' you've got to keep that oath. I pin you down to
it. You can't break faith with Collie.... An' you don't want his bad
blood on your hands."

"No! No!" he replied, violently. "Of course I don't. I won't. But God!
how sweet it would be to tear out his lying tongue--to--"

"I reckon it would. Only don't talk about that," interrupted Wade,
bluntly. "You see, now, don't you, how he's about hanged himself."

"No, pard, I don't. We can't squeal that on him, any more than we can
squeal what Collie told us."

"Son, you're young in dealin' with crooked men. You don't get the drift
of motives. Buster Jack is not only robbin' his father an' hatchin' a
dirty trap for you, but he's double-crossin' the rustlers he's sellin'
the cattle to. He's riskin' their necks. He's goin' to find _your_
tracks, showin' you dealt with them. Sure, he won't give them away, an'
he's figurin' on their gettin' out of it, maybe by leavin' the range, or
a shootin'-fray, or some way. The big thing with Jack is that he's goin'
to accuse you of rustlin' an