the handkerchief out of
his hip pocket when he jumped out of the rig. It's right simple, and if
folks didn't get to wondering about it, it'd be safe as any killing can
be. As safe," he added meaningly, "as dragging Fred Thurman, or
unhooking Brit's chain-lock before he started down the canyon with his
load of posts."

Swan did not answer, but turned back to where the horse had been left
tied and took up the trail from there. As before, the dog trotted along,
Lone riding close behind him and Swan striding after. They did not
really need the dog, for the hoofprints were easily followed for the
greater part of the way.

They had gone perhaps four miles when Lone turned, resting a hand on the
cantle of his saddle while he looked back at Swan. "You see where he was
headed for, don't yuh, Swan?" he asked, his tone as friendly as though
he was not under arrest as a murderer. "If he didn't go to Whisper, I'll
eat my hat."

"You're the man to know," Swan retorted grimly. And then, because Lone's
horse had slowed in a long climb over a ridge, he came up even with a
stirrup. "Lone, I hate to do it. I'd like you, if you don't kill for a
living. But for that I could shoot you quick as a coyote. You're
smart--but not smart enough. You gave yourself away when I showed you
Fred's saddle. After that I knew who was the Sawtooth killer that I came
here to find."

"You thought you knew," Lone corrected calmly.

"You don't have to lie," Swan informed him bluntly. "You don't have to
tell anything. I find out for myself if I make mistake."

"Go to it," Lone advised him coldly. "It don't make a darn bit of
difference to me whether I ride in front of you or behind. I'm so glad
you're here on the job, Swan, that I'm plumb willing to be tied hand and
foot if it'll help you any."

"When a man's too damn willing to be my prisoner," Swan observed
seriously, "he gets tied, all right. Put out your hands, Lone. You look
good to me with bracelets on, when you talk so willing to go to jail for
murder."

He had slipped the rifle butt to the ground, and before Lone quite
realized what he was doing Swan had a short, wicked-looking automatic
pistol in one hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other. Lone flushed,
but there was nothing to do but hold out his hands.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE SAWTOOTH SHOWS ITS HAND

In her fictitious West Lorraine had long since come to look upon
violence as a synonym for picturesqueness; murder and mystery we