ught sight of the Two Diamond
ranch buildings, scattered over a great basin through which the river
flowed. Half an hour later he rode up to the ranchhouse and met
Stafford at the door of the office. The manager waved him inside.

"I'm two days late," said Ferguson, after he had taken a chair in the
office. He related to Stafford the attack by the rattler. The latter
showed some concern over the injury.

"I reckon you didn't do your own doctorin'?" he asked.

Ferguson told him of the girl. The manager's lips straightened. A
grim humor shone from his eyes.

"You stayed there over night?" he questioned.

"I reckon I stayed there. It was in a cabin down at a place which I
heard the girl say was called 'Bear Flat.' I didn't ketch the name of
the man."

Stafford grinned coldly. "I reckon they didn't know what you was
comin' over here for?"

"I didn't advertise," returned Ferguson quietly.

"If you had," declared Stafford, his eyes glinting with a cold
amusement, "you would have found things plum lively. The man's name is
Ben Radford. He's the man I'm hirin' you to put out of business!"

For all Stafford could see Ferguson did not move a muscle. Yet the
news had shocked him; he could feel the blood surging rapidly through
his veins. But the expression of his face was inscrutable.

"Well, now," he said, "that sure would have made things interestin'.
An' so that's the man you think has been stealin' your cattle?" He
looked steadily at the manager. "But I told you before that I wasn't
doin' any shootin'."

"Correct," agreed the manager. "What I want you to do is to prove that
Radford's the man. We can't do anything until we prove that he's been
rustlin'. An' then----" He smiled grimly.

"You reckon to know the girl's name too?" inquired Ferguson.

"It's Mary," stated the manager. "I've heard Leviatt talk about her."

Ferguson contemplated the manager gravely. "An' you ain't sure that
Radford's stealin' your cattle?"

Stafford filled and lighted his pipe. "I'm takin' Dave Leviatt's word
for it," he said.

"Who's Leviatt?" queried Ferguson.

"My range boss," returned Stafford.

"He's been ridin' sign on Radford an' says he's responsible for all the
stock that we've been missin' in the last six months."

Ferguson rolled a cigarette. He lighted it and puffed for a moment in
silence, the manager watching him.

"Back at Dry Bottom," said Ferguson presently, "there was a man
shootin' at