lison," answered Bolt, with grave
reproach. "I haven't any friends or any enemies when it comes to doing
what I've sworn to do."

"Then you ought to know Father couldn't have done this. There is such a
thing as character. Luck Cullison simply _couldn't_ be a thief."

Mackenzie's faith had been strengthened by the insistent loyalty of the
girl. "That's right, Nick. Let me tell you something else. Fendrick knew
Luck was going to prove up on Thursday. He heard him tell us at the
Round-Up Club Tuesday morning."

The sheriff summed up. "You've proved Cass had interests that would be
helped if Mr. Cullison were removed. But you haven't shaken the evidence
against Luck."

"We've proved Cass Fendrick had to get Father out of the way on the very
day he disappeared. One day later would have been too late. We've shown
his enmity. Any evidence that rests on his word is no good. The truth
isn't in the man."

"Maybe not, but he didn't make this evidence."

Kate had another inspirational flash. "He did--some of it. Somehow he got
hold of father's hat, and he manufactured a story about shooting it from
the robber's head. But to make his story stick he must admit he was on the
ground at the time of the hold-up. So he must have known the robbery was
going to take place. It's as plain as old Run-A-Mile's wart that he knew
of it because he planned it himself."

Bolt's shrewd eyes narrowed to a smile. "You prove to me that Cass had
your father's hat _before the hold-up_, and I'll take some stock in the
story."

"And in the meantime," suggested Curly.

"I'll keep right on looking for Luck Cullison, but I'll keep an eye on
Cass Fendrick, too."

Kate took up the challenge confidently. "I'll prove he had the hat--at
least I'll try to pretty hard. It's the truth, and it must come out
somehow."

After he had left her at the hotel, Curly walked the streets with a sharp
excitement tingling his blood. He had lived his life among men, and he
knew little about women and their ways. But his imagination seized avidly
upon this slim, dark girl with the fine eyes that could be both tender and
ferocious, with the look of combined delicacy and strength in every line
of her.

"Ain't she the gamest little thoroughbred ever?" he chuckled to himself.
"Stands the acid every crack. Think of her standing pat so game--just like
she did for me that night out at the ranch. She's the best argument Luck
has got."

CHAPTER VI

TWO HATS ON A RAC