But the river had greatly fallen—­the water hardly washed above the knees of the horse except in the centre of the stream; by noon he reached the town and went straight for the office of Glendin.  The deputy was not there, and the rancher was referred to Murphy’s saloon.

There he found Glendin, seated at a corner table with a glass of beer in front of him, and considering the sun-whitened landscape lazily through the window.  At the sound of the heavy footfall of Drew he turned, rose, his shoulders flattened against the wall behind him like a cornered man prepared for a desperate stand.

“It’s all right,” cried Drew.  “It’s all over, Glendin.  Duffy won’t press any charges against Bard; he says that he’s given the horse away.  And Calamity Ben is going to live.”

“Who says he will?”

“I’ve just ridden in from his bedside.  Dr. Young says the crisis is past.  And so—­thank God—­there’s no danger to Bard; he’s free from the law!”

“Too late,” said the deputy.

It did not seem that Drew heard him.  He stepped closer and turned his head.

“What’s that?”

“Too late.  I’ve sent out men to—­to apprehend Bard.”

“Apprehend him?” repeated Drew.  “Is it possible?  To murder him, you mean!”

He had not made a threatening move, but the deputy had his grip on the butt of his gun.

“It was that devil Nash.  He persuaded me to send out a posse with him in charge.”

“And you sent him?”

“What could I do?  Ain’t it legal?”

“Murder is legal—­sometimes.  It has been in the past.  I’ve an idea that it’s going to be again.”

“What d’you mean by that?”

“You’ll learn later.  Where did they go for Bard?”

He did not seem disappointed.  He was rather like a man who had already heard bad news and now only finds it confirmed.  He knew before.  Now the fact was simply clinched.

“They went out to your old place on the other side of the range.  Drew, listen to me—­”

“How many went after him?”

“Nash, Butch Conklin, and five more.  Butch’s gang.”

“Conklin!”

“I was in a hole; I needed men.”

“How long have they been gone?”

“Since last night.”

“Then,” said Drew, “he’s already dead.  He doesn’t know the mountains.”

“I give Nash strict orders not to do nothin’ but apprehend Bard.”

“Don’t talk, Glendin.  It disgusts me—­makes my flesh crawl.  He’s alone, with seven cutthroats against him.”

“Not alone.  Sally Fortune’s better’n two common men.”

“The girl?  God bless her!  She’s with him; she knows the country.  There may be a hope; Glendin, if you’re wise, start praying now that I find Bard alive.  If I don’t—­”

The swinging doors closed behind him as he rushed through toward his horse.  Glendin stood dazed, his face mottled with a sick pallor.  Then he moved automatically toward the bar.  Murphy hobbled down the length of the room on his wooden leg and placed bottle and glass before the deputy.