he retorted defiantly.

"But, Sheriff, he may be telling us the truth," urged Paul Breslin.
"Foy may very well have ridden here alone before Vorhis got here. I've
known the Major a long time. He isn't the man to protect a red-handed
murderer."

"Aw, bah! How do you know I won't? How do you know he's a murderer?
You make me sick!" declared the Major hotly. Breslin was an honest,
well-meaning farmer; the Major was furious to find such a man allied
with Foy's foes--certain sign that other decent blockheads would do
likewise. "Matt Lisner tells you Kit Foy is a murderer and you believe
him implicitly: Matt Lisner tells you I'm a liar--but you stumble at
that. Why? Because you think about me--that's why! Why don't you try
that plan about Foy--thinking?"

"But Foy's run away," stammered Breslin, disconcerted.

"Run away, hell! He's not here, you mean. According to your precious
story, Foy was leaving before Marr was killed--or before you say Marr
was killed. Why don't you look for him with the Bar Cross round-up?
There's where he started for, you say?"

"I wired up and had a trusty man go out there quietly at once. He's
staying there still--quietly," said the sheriff. "Foy isn't there--and
the Bar Cross hasn't heard of the killing yet. It won't do, Major.
Foy's run away."

John Wesley Pringle, limp, slack, and rumpled in his chair, yawned,
stretching his arms wide.

"This man Foy," he ventured amiably, "if he really run away, he done a
wise little stunt for himself, I think. Because every little ever and
anon, thin scraps of talk float in from your cookfire in the yard--and
there's a heap of it about ropes and lynching, for instance. If he
hasn't run away yet, he'd better--and I'll tell him so if I see him.
Stubby, red-faced, spindlin', thickset, jolly little man, ain't he?
Heavy-complected, broad-shouldered, dark blond, very tall and
slender, weighs about a hundred and ninety, with a pale skin and a
hollow-cheeked, plump, serious face?"

At this ill-timed and unthinkable levity Breslin stared in
bewilderment; Lisner glared, gripping his fist convulsively; and Mr.
Ben Creagan, an uneasy third inquisitor, breathed hard through his
nose. Anastacio Barela, the fourth and last inquisitor, maintained
unmoved the disinterested attitude he had held since the interrogation
began. Feet crossed, he lounged in his chair, graceful, silent,
smoking, listening, idly observant of wall and ceiling.

No answer being forthcoming t