Big O’Brien leaned over the bar.

“Listen, Fatty,” he said earnestly, “There ain’t no doubt of it.  Jerry had his war-paint on.  He tried to kill this feller Barry’s wolf.”

“Wolf?” cut in the deputy marshal.

“Dog, I guess,” qualified the bartender.  “I dunno.  Anyway, Jerry made all the leads; this Barry simply done the finishing.  I say, don’t put this Barry under arrest.  You want to keep him here for Mac Strann.”

“That’s my business,” growled Fatty.  “Hey, half a dozen of you gents.  Hook on to Jerry and take him up to a room.  I’ll be with you in a minute.”

And while his directions were being obeyed he trotted heavily up the length of the barroom and out the swinging doors.  Outside, he found only one man, and in the act of mounting a black horse; the deputy marshal made straight for that man until a huge black dog appeared from nowhere blocking his path.  It was a silent dog, but its teeth and eyes said enough to stop Fatty in full career.

“Are you Barry?” he asked.

“That’s me.  Come here, Bart.”

The big dog backed to the other side of the horse without shifting his eyes from the marshal.  The latter gingerly approached the rider, who sat perfectly at ease in the saddle; most apparently he was in no haste to leave.

“Barry,” said the deputy, “don’t make no play when I tell you who I am; I don’t mean you no harm, but my name’s Matthews, and—­” he drew back the flap of his vest enough to show the glitter of his badge of office.  All the time his little beady eyes watched Barry with bird-like intentness.  The rider made not a move.  And now Matthews noted more in detail the feminine slenderness of the man and the large, placid eyes.  He stepped closer and dropped a confidential hand on the pommel of the saddle.

“Son,” he muttered, “I hear you made a clean play inside.  Now, I know Strann and his way.  He was in wrong.  There ain’t a doubt of it, and if I held you, you’d get clear on self-defense.  So I ain’t going to lay a hand on you.  You’re free:  but one thing more.  You cut off there—­see?—­and bear away north from the Three B’s.  You got a boss that is, and believe me, you’ll need him before you’re through.”  He lowered his voice and his eyes bulged with the terror of his tidings:  “Feed him the leather; ride to beat hell; never stop while your hoss can raise a trot; and then slide off your hoss and get another.  Son, in three days Mac Strann’ll be on your trail!”

He stepped back and waved his arms.

“Now, vamos!”

The black stallion flicked back its ears and winced from the outflung hands, but the rider remained imperturbed.

“I never heard of Mac Strann,” said Barry.

“You never heard of Mac Strann?” echoed the other.

“But I’d like to meet him,” said Barry.

The deputy marshal blinked his eyes rapidly, as though he needed to clear his vision.