Pete started back.  Waring’s hand was on the table, the fingers closed.  His fingers slowly opened, and a crumpled piece of paper lay in his palm.  The cowboy’s lips tightened.  His eyes shifted from Waring to Starr, and then back again.

Mrs. Starr, who could not understand the strange silence of the men, breathed hard and wiped her forehead with her apron.

“Read it!” said Waring sharply.

The cowboy took the piece of paper, and, spreading it out, glanced at it hurriedly.

“This ain’t for me,” he asserted.

“Did you ever see it before?”

“This?  No.  What have I got to do with the sheriff’s office?”

“Pete,” said Waring, drawing back his hand, “you had better read that note again.”

“Why, I—­Pete can’t read,” said Mrs. Starr.  “He can spell out printed reading some, but not writing.”

“Then how did you know this paper was from the sheriff’s office?” queried Waring.

The cowboy half rose.

“Sit down!” thundered Waring.  “Who sent you with a note to Pat last Wednesday?”

“Who said anybody sent me?”

“Don’t waste time!  I say so.  That broken shoe your cayuse cast says so, for I trailed him from my ranch to the line fence.  And you have said so yourself.  This paper is not from the sheriff’s office.  It’s a tax receipt.”

The cowboy’s face went white.

“Honest, so help me, Mr. Waring, I didn’t know the Brewster boys was after Pat.  Bob he give me the paper.  Said it was from the sheriff, and I was to give it to Pat if you weren’t around.”

“And if I happened to be around?”

“I was to wait until you was out with the fence gang—­”

“How did you know I would be out with them?”

“Bob Brewster told me you would be.”

Waring folded the piece of paper and tore it across.

“Starr,” he said, turning to the old cattleman, “you have heard and seen what has happened since we sat down.”  And Waring turned on the cowboy.  “How much did Bob Brewster give you for this work?”

“I was to get fifty dollars if I put it through.”

“And you put it through!  You knew it was crooked.  And you call yourself a man!  And you took a letter to Pat that called him out to be shot down by that coyote!  Do you know that Pat’s gun was loaded when I found it; that he didn’t have a chance?”

Waring’s face grew suddenly old.  He leaned back wearily.

“I wonder just how you feel?” he said presently.  “If I had done a trick like that I’d take a gun and blow my brains out.  God, I’d rather be where Pat is than have to carry your load the rest of my life!  But you’re yellow clean through, and Bob Brewster knew it and hired you.  Now you will take that lame cayuse and ride north just as quick as you can throw a saddle on him.  And when you go,”—­and Waring rose and pointed toward the doorway,—­“forget the way back to this country.”