Judkins mounted Bells and rode with Venters up to the cottonwood grove.  Here they dismounted and went among the trees.

“Let’s hear from you first,” said Judkins.  “You fetched back them hosses.  Thet is the trick.  An’, of course, you got Jerry the same as you got Horne.”

“Horne!”

“Sure.  He was found dead yesterday all chewed by coyotes, en’ he’d been shot plumb center.”

“Where was he found?”

“At the split down the trail—­you know where Oldring’s cattle trail runs off north from the trail to the pass.”

“That’s where I met Jerry and the rustlers.  What was Horne doing with them?  I thought Horne was an honest cattle-man.”

“Lord—­Bern, don’t ask me thet!  I’m all muddled now tryin’ to figure things.”

Venters told of the fight and the race with Jerry Card and its tragic conclusion.

“I knowed it!  I knowed all along that Wrangle was the best hoss!” exclaimed Judkins, with his lean face working and his eyes lighting.  “Thet was a race!  Lord, I’d like to hev seen Wrangle jump the cliff with Jerry.  An’ thet was good-by to the grandest hoss an’ rider ever on the sage!...But, Bern, after you got the hosses why’d you want to bolt right in Tull’s face?”

“I want him to know.  An’ if I can get to him I’ll—­”

“You can’t get near Tull,” interrupted Judkins.  “Thet vigilante bunch hev taken to bein’ bodyguard for Tull an’ Dyer, too.”

“Hasn’t Lassiter made a break yet?” inquired Venters, curiously.

“Naw!” replied Judkins, scornfully.  “Jane turned his head.  He’s mad in love over her—­follers her like a dog.  He ain’t no more Lassiter!  He’s lost his nerve, he doesn’t look like the same feller.  It’s village talk.  Everybody knows it.  He hasn’t thrown a gun, an’ he won’t!”

“Jud, I’ll bet he does,” replied Venters, earnestly.  “Remember what I say.  This Lassiter is something more than a gun-man.  Jud, he’s big—­he’s great!...I feel that in him.  God help Tull and Dyer when Lassiter does go after them.  For horses and riders and stone walls won’t save them.”

“Wal, hev it your way, Bern.  I hope you’re right.  Nat’rully I’ve been some sore on Lassiter fer gittin’ soft.  But I ain’t denyin’ his nerve, or whatever’s great in him thet sort of paralyzes people.  No later ‘n this mornin’ I seen him saunterin’ down the lane, quiet an’ slow.  An’ like his guns he comes black—­black, thet’s Lassiter.  Wal, the crowd on the corner never batted an eye, en’ I’ll gamble my hoss thet there wasn’t one who hed a heartbeat till Lassiter got by.  He went in Snell’s saloon, an’ as there wasn’t no gun play I had to go in, too.  An’ there, darn my pictures, if Lassiter wasn’t standin’ to the bar, drinking en’ talkin’ with Oldrin’.”

“Oldring!” whispered Venters.  His voice, as all fire and pulse within him, seemed to freeze.