cowboy, Nels, fussed aimlessly over
the camp-fire, and then straightened up with a very red face.

"Bill, you're a dog-gone liar," he said. "I reckon I won't stand to be
classed with Booly an' Ned. There ain't no cowboy on this range thet's
more appreciatin' of the ladies than me, but I shore ain't ridin' out
of my way. I reckon I hev enough ridin' to do. Now, Bill, if you've sich
dog-gone good eyes mebbe you seen somethin' on the way out?"

"Nels, I hevn't seen nothin'," he replied, bluntly. His levity
disappeared, and the red wrinkles narrowed round his searching eyes.

"Jest take a squint at these hoss tracks," said Nels, and he drew
Stillwell a few paces aside and pointed to large hoofprints in the dust.
"I reckon you know the hoss thet made them?"

"Gene Stewart's roan, or I'm a son-of-a-gun!" exclaimed Stillwell, and
he dropped heavily to his knees and began to scrutinize the tracks. "My
eyes are sure pore; but, Nels, they ain't fresh."

"I reckon them tracks was made early yesterday mornin'."

"Wal, what if they was?" Stillwell looked at his cowboy. "It's sure as
thet red nose of yourn Gene wasn't ridin' the roan."

"Who's sayin' he was? Bill, its more 'n your eyes thet's gettin' old.
Jest foller them tracks. Come on."

Stillwell walked slowly, with his head bent, muttering to himself.
Some thirty paces or more from the camp-fire he stopped short and again
flopped to his knees. Then he crawled about, evidently examining horse
tracks.

"Nels, whoever was straddlin' Stewart's hoss met somebody. An' they
hauled up a bit, but didn't git down."

"Tolerable good for you, Bill, thet reasonin'," replied the cowboy.

Stillwell presently got up and walked swiftly to the left for some rods,
halted, and faced toward the southwest, then retraced his steps. He
looked at the imperturbable cowboy.

"Nels, I don't like this a little," he growled. "Them tracks make
straight fer the Peloncillo trail."

"Shore," replied Nels.

"Wal?" went on Stillwell, impatiently.

"I reckon you know what hoss made the other tracks?"

"I'm thinkin' hard, but I ain't sure."

"It was Danny Mains's bronc."

"How do you know thet?" demanded Stillwell, sharply. "Bill, the left
front foot of thet little hoss always wears a shoe thet sets crooked.
Any of the boys can tell you. I'd know thet track if I was blind."

Stillwell's ruddy face clouded and he kicked at a cactus plant.

"Was Danny comin' or goin'?" he asked.

"I reckon he