f my word? Can't you see where I stand? Do you
think I could look Lorry in the face when he knew that I sat idle while
the man that murdered Pat was riding the country free?"

"Pat was your friend. I am your wife," said Mrs. Adams.

Waring's lips hardened. "Pat's gone. But I'm calling myself his friend
yet. And the man that got him is going to know it."

Before she could speak again Waring was gone.

She dropped to a chair and buried her face in her arms. Anita came to
her and tried to comfort her. But Mrs. Adams rose and walked to the
office doorway. She saw Waring riding down the street. She wanted to
call out to him, to call him back. She felt that he was riding to his
death. If he would only turn! If he would only wave his hand to show
that he cared--But Waring rode on, straight and stern, black hate in his
heart, his free hand hollowed as though with an invisible vengeance that
was gone as he drew his fingers tense.

He rode north, toward the Starr Ranch. He passed a group of riders
drifting some yearlings toward town. A man spoke to him. He did not
reply.

And as he rode he heard a voice--the Voice of his desert wanderings, the
Voice that had whispered to him from the embers of many a night fire in
the Southern solitudes. Yet there, was this difference. That voice had
been strangely dispassionate, detached; not the voice of a human being.
But now the Voice was that of his friend Pat softly reiterating: "Not
this way, Jim."

And Waring cursed. His plan was made. He would suffer no interference.
If Brewster were at the Starr Ranch, he would question him first. If he
were not, there would be no questioning. Waring determined to trail him.
If Brewster had left that part of the country, that would prove his
guilt.

Waring knew that Hardy and his men had ridden south, endeavoring to find
some clue to the murderer's whereabouts. Waring, guided by almost
absolute knowledge, rode in the opposite direction and against a keen
instinct that told him High-Chin Bob was not at the ranch. Yet Waring
would not overlook the slightest chance. Brewster was of the type that
would kill a man in a quarrel and ride home, depending on his nerve and
lack of evidence to escape punishment.

The Voice had said, "Not this way, Jim." And Waring knew that it had
been the voice of his own instinct. Yet a stubborn purpose held him to
his course. There was one chance in a thousand that Bob Brewster was at
the ranch and would disclaim all