er at Concho, ought to have the number of that gun which Pete
packed. If the sheriff of Sanborn was an old-timer he would know that
a man who packed a gun for business reasons did not go round the
country experimenting with different makes and calibers. Only the
"showcase" boys in the towns swapped guns. Ed Brevoort had always used
a Luger. Pete wondered if there had been any evidence of the caliber
of the bullet which had killed Brent. If the sheriff were an old-timer
such evidence would not be overlooked.

Pete got up and wandered out to the veranda. The place was deserted.
He suddenly realized that those who were able had gone to their noon
meal. He had forgotten about that. He walked back to his room and sat
on the edge of his cot. He was lonesome and dispirited. He was not
hungry, but he felt decidedly empty. This was the first time that
Doris had allowed him to miss a meal, and it was her fault! She might
have called him. But what did she care? In raw justice to her--why
_should_ she care?

Pete's brooding eyes brightened as Doris came in with a tray. She had
thought that he had rather have his dinner there. "I noticed that you
did not come down with the others," she said.

Pete was angry with himself. Adam-like he said he wasn't hungry anyhow.

"Then I'll take it back," said Doris sweetly,

Adam-like, Pete decided that he was hungry. "Miss Gray," he blurted,
"I--I'm a doggone short-horn! I'm goin' to eat. I sure want to square
myself."

"For what?"

Doris was gazing at him with a serene directness that made him feel
that his clothing was several sizes too large for him. He realized
that generalities would hardly serve his turn just then.

"I was settin' here feelin' sore at the whole doggone outfit," he
explained. "Sore at you--and everybody."

"Well?" said Doris unsmilingly.

"I'm askin' you to forgit that I was sore at you." Pete was not
ordinarily of an apologetic turn, and he felt that he pretty thoroughly
squared himself.

"It really doesn't matter," said Doris, as she placed his tray on the
table and turned to go.

"I reckon you're right." And his dark eyes grew moody again.

"There's a man in the reception-room waiting to see you," said Doris.
"I told him you were having your dinner."

"Another one, eh? Oh, I was forgittin'. I got a letter from Jim
Bailey"--Pete fumbled in his shirt--"and I thought mebby--"

"I hope it's good news."

"It sure is! Would you mi