now at last they would
see this law, and find out what it could do. One of the men with Swope
was a deputy sheriff, Creede could tell that by his star; but the
other man might be almost anything--a little fat man with a pointed
beard and congress shoes; a lawyer, perhaps, or maybe some town
detective.

"Is this Mr. Creede?" inquired the deputy, casually flashing his star
as they met beside the trail.

"That's my name," replied Creede. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, Mr. Creede," responded the officer, eying his man carefully, "I
come up here to look into the killing of Juan Alvarez, a Mexican
sheep-herder."

"The killin'?" echoed Creede, astounded.

"That's right," snapped the deputy sheriff, trying to get the jump on
him. "What do you know about it?"

"Who--me?" answered the cowman, his eyes growing big and earnest as he
grasped the news. "Not a thing. The last time I saw Juan Alvarez he
was standin' on a ledge of rocks way over yonder in the middle
fork--and he certainly was all right then."

"Yes? And when was this, Mr. Creede?"

"Day before yesterday, about sundown."

"Day before yesterday, eh? And just what was you doin' over there at
the time?"

"Well, I'll tell ye," began Creede circumstantially. "Me and Ben
Reavis and a couple of the boys had gone over toward the Pocket to
catch up our horses. They turned back on us and finally we run 'em
into that big _redondo_ up in the middle fork. I reckon we was ridin'
back and forth half an hour out there gittin' 'em stopped, and we
never heard a peep out of this Mexican, but jest as we got our
_remuda_ quieted down and was edgin' in to rope out the ones we
wanted, here comes a big band of wild horses that the other boys had
scared up over behind the Peaks, roaring down the canyon and into us.
Of course, there was nothin' for it then but to git out of the way and
let 'em pass, and we did it, dam' quick. Well, sir, that bunch of wild
horses went by us like the mill tails of hell, and of course our
_remuda_ stompeded after 'em and the whole outfit went bilin' through
the box canyon, where it turned out Juan Alvarez had been hidin' his
sheep. That's all I know about it."

"Well, did you have any trouble of any kind with this deceased
Mexican, Mr. Creede? Of course you don't need to answer that if it
will incriminate you, but I just wanted to know, you understand."

"Oh, that's all right," responded the cowman, waving the suggestion
aside with airy unconcern