eyes flashing, interrupted him.

"Dr. Andover left word that he does not want Mr. Annersley to see
visitors without his permission."

"Reckon we can see him, miss. I had a talk with Doc Andover."

"Then let me call Mr. Annersley, please. There are so many--patients
out there."

"All right, miss."

Doris took Pete's place as she told him. Little Ruth entered a
demurrer, although she liked Doris. "Pete knew all about forces and
cows. He must come wight back . . ."

"What a beautiful bossy!" said Doris as Ruth rearranged the slightly
disjointed cow.

"Dat a _cow_," said Ruth positively. "Pete says dat a _cow_!"

"And what a wonderful pony!"

"Dat a _force_, Miss Dowis. Pete say dat a force."

It was evident to Doris that Pete was an authority, not without honor
in his own country, and an authority not to be questioned, for Ruth
gravely informed Doris that Pete could "wide" and "wope" and knew
everything about "forces" and "cows."

Meanwhile Pete, seated on the edge of his cot, was telling the
plain-clothes men that he was willing to go with them whenever they
were ready, stipulating, however, that he wanted to visit the
Stockmen's Security and Savings Bank first, and as soon as possible.
Incidentally he stubbornly refused to admit that he had anything to do
with the killing of Brent, whom the sheriff of Sanborn had finally
identified as the aforetime foreman of the Olla.

"There's nothing personal about this, young fella," said one of the men
as Pete's dark eyes blinked somberly. "It's our business, that's all."

"And it's a dam' crawlin' business," asserted Pete. "You couldn't even
let The Spider cross over peaceful."

"I reckon he earned all he got," said one of the men.

"Mebby. But it took three fast guns to git him--and he put _them_ out
of business first. I'd 'a' liked to seen some of you rubber-heeled
heifers tryin' to put the irons on him."

"That kind of talk won't do you no good when you're on the stand, young
fella. It ain't likely that Sam Brent was your first job. Your record
reads pretty strong for a kid."

"Meanin' Gary? Well, about Gary"--Pete fumbled in his shirt. "I got a
letter here" . . . He studied the closely written sheet for a few
seconds, then his face cleared. "Jest run your eye over that. It's
from Jim Bailey, who used to be my fo'man on the Concho."

The officers read the letter, one gazing over the other's shoulder,
"Who's this Jim Bailey, anyhow?"

"H