Bob shook his head.

“The trial is next week,” he pointed out.  “In case the prosecution had intended calling me, I should have been summoned long since.  There’s dust; they are coming.  You’d better stay here.”

She agreed readily to this.  After a moment a light wagon drove up.  On the seat perched Welton and Ware.  Bob climbed in behind.

They drove rapidly down to the forks, stopped and hitched the team.

“Ware’s been telling me the whole situation, Bobby,” said Welton.  “That gang’s getting pretty desperate!  I’ve heard of this man Oldham around this country for a long while, but I always understood he was interested against the Power Company.”

“Bluff,” said Bob briefly.  “He’s been in their employ from the first, but I never thought he’d go in for quite this kind of strong-arm work.  He doesn’t look it, do you think?”

“I never laid eyes on him,” replied Welton.  “He’s never been near the mill, and I never happened to run across him anywhere else.”

By this time they had secured the team.  Ware led the way to the tree under which lay the body of the land agent.  Welton surveyed the prostrate figure for some time in silence.  Then turned to Bob, a curious expression on his face.

“It wasn’t an accident that I never met him,” said he.  “He saw to it.  Don’t you remember this man, Bobby?”

“I saw him in Los Angeles some years ago.”

“Before that—­in Michigan—­many years ago.”

“His face has always seemed familiar to me,” said Bob slowly.  “I can’t place it—­yes—­hold on!”

A picture defined itself from the mists of his boyhood memories.  It was of an open field, with a fringe of beech woods in the distance.  A single hickory stood near its centre, and under this a group lounged, smoking pipes.  A man, perched on a cracker box, held a blank book and pencil.  Another stood by a board, a gun in his hand.  The smell of black powder hung in the atmosphere.  Little glass balls popped into the air, and were snuffed out.  He saw Oldham distinctly, looking younger and browner, but with the same cynical mouth, the same cold eyes, the same slanted eyeglasses.  Even before his recollections reproduced the scorer’s drawling voice calling the next contestant, his memory supplied the name.

“It’s Newmark!” he cried aloud.

“Joe Newmark, your father’s old partner!  He hasn’t changed much.  He disappeared from Michigan when you were about eight years old; didn’t he!  Nobody ever knew how or why, but everybody had suspicions....  Well; let’s get him in.”

They disposed the body in the wagon, and drove back up the road.  At the little brook they stopped to let off Ware.  It was agreed that all danger to Bob was now past, and that the gun-man would do better to accompany Amy back to headquarters.  Of course, it would be necessary to work the whole matter out at the coroner’s inquest, but in view of the circumstances, Ware’s safety was assured.