“No, he thinks it’s because of a woman.”

“Is he tangling himself up with some girl?” frowned the rancher.

“He’s cutting in on me with Sally Fortune—­damn his heart!”

And Nash paled visibly, even through whiskers and mud.  The other almost smiled.

“So soon, Nash?”

“With hosses and women, he don’t lose no time.”

“What’s he done?”

“The first trace I caught of him was at a shack of an old ranchhouse where he’d traded his lame hoss in.  They gave him the wildest mustang they had—­a hoss that was saddle-shy and that hadn’t never been ridden.  He busted that hoss in—­a little piebald mustang, tougher ’n iron—­and that was why I didn’t catch him till we hit Eldara.”

The smile was growing more palpable on the face of Drew, and he nodded for the story to continue.

“Then I come to a house which was all busted up because Bard had come along and flirted with the girl, and she’s got too proud for the feller she was engaged to—­begun thinkin’ of millionaires right away, I s’pose.

“Next I tracked him to Flanders’s saloon, where he’d showed up Sandy Ferguson the day before and licked him bad.  I seen Ferguson.  It was sure some lickin’.”

“Ferguson?  The gun-fighter?  The two-gun man?”

“Him.”

“Ah-h-h!” drawled the big man.

The colour was back in his face.  He seemed to be enjoying the recountal hugely.

“Then I hit Eldara and found all the lights out.”

“Because of Bard?”

“H-m!  He’d had a run-in with Butch Conklin, and Butch threatened to come back with all his gang and wipe Eldara off the map.  He stuck around and while he was waitin’ for Butch and his gang, he started flirtin’ with Sally—­Fortune.”

The name seemed to stick in his throat and he had to bring it out with a grimace.  “So now you want his blood, Nash?”

“I’ll have it,” said the cowpuncher quietly, “I’ve got gambler’s luck.  In the end I’m sure to win.”

“You’re not going to win here, Nash.”

“No?” queried the younger man, with a dangerous intonation.

“No.  I know the blood behind that chap.  You won’t win here.  Blood will out.”

He smote his great fist on the desk-top and his laugh was a thunder which reverberated through the room.

“Blood will out?  The blood of John Bard?” asked Nash.

Drew started.

“Who said John Bard?”

He grew grey again, the flush dying swiftly.  He started to his feet and repeated in a great voice, sweeping the room with a wild glance:  “Who said John Bard?”

“I thought maybe this was his son,” answered Nash.

“You’re a fool!  Does he look like John Bard?  No, there’s only one person in the world he looks like.”

He strode again up and down the room, repeating in a deep monotone: 
“John Bard!”

Coming to a sharp halt he said:  “I don’t want the rest of your story.  The point is that the boy will be here within—­an hour—­two hours.  We’ve got work to do before that time.”