oss in. They gave him the wildest mustang
they had--a hoss that was saddle-shy and that hadn't never been ridden.
He busted that hoss in--a little piebald mustang, tougher 'n iron--and
that was why I didn't catch him till we hit Eldara."

The smile was growing more palpable on the face of Drew, and he nodded
for the story to continue.

"Then I come to a house which was all busted up because Bard had come
along and flirted with the girl, and she's got too proud for the feller
she was engaged to--begun thinkin' of millionaires right away, I s'pose.

"Next I tracked him to Flanders's saloon, where he'd showed up Sandy
Ferguson the day before and licked him bad. I seen Ferguson. It was sure
some lickin'."

"Ferguson? The gun-fighter? The two-gun man?"

"Him."

"Ah-h-h!" drawled the big man.

The colour was back in his face. He seemed to be enjoying the recountal
hugely.

"Then I hit Eldara and found all the lights out."

"Because of Bard?"

"H-m! He'd had a run-in with Butch Conklin, and Butch threatened to come
back with all his gang and wipe Eldara off the map. He stuck around and
while he was waitin' for Butch and his gang, he started flirtin' with
Sally--Fortune."

The name seemed to stick in his throat and he had to bring it out with a
grimace. "So now you want his blood, Nash?"

"I'll have it," said the cowpuncher quietly, "I've got gambler's luck.
In the end I'm sure to win."

"You're not going to win here, Nash."

"No?" queried the younger man, with a dangerous intonation.

"No. I know the blood behind that chap. You won't win here. Blood will
out."

He smote his great fist on the desk-top and his laugh was a thunder
which reverberated through the room.

"Blood will out? The blood of John Bard?" asked Nash.

Drew started.

"Who said John Bard?"

He grew grey again, the flush dying swiftly. He started to his feet and
repeated in a great voice, sweeping the room with a wild glance: "Who
said John Bard?"

"I thought maybe this was his son," answered Nash.

"You're a fool! Does he look like John Bard? No, there's only one person
in the world he looks like."

He strode again up and down the room, repeating in a deep monotone:
"John Bard!"

Coming to a sharp halt he said: "I don't want the rest of your story.
The point is that the boy will be here within--an hour--two hours. We've
got work to do before that time."

"Listen to me," answered the foreman, "don't let him get inside this
hou