At the mill the necessary telephoning was done, the officials summoned, and everything put in order.

“What I really started over to see you about,” then said Bob to Welton, “is this matter of the Modoc Company.”  He went on to explain fully Amy’s plan for checkmating Baker.  “You see, if I get in my word first, Baker is as much implicated as you are, and it won’t do him any good to turn state’s evidence.”

“I don’t see as that helps me,” remarked Welton gloomily.

“Baker might be willing to put himself in any position,” said Bob; “but I doubt if he’ll care to take the risk of criminal punishment.  I think this will head him off completely; but if it doesn’t, every move he makes to save his own skin saves yours too.”

“It may do some good,” agreed Welton.  “Try it.”

“I’ve already written Baker.  But I didn’t want you to think I was starting up the bloodhounds against you without some blame good reason.”

“I’d know that anyway, Bobby,” said Welton kindly.  He stared moodily at the stovepipe.  “This is getting too thick for an old-timer,” he broke out at last.  “I’m just a plain, old-fashioned lumberman, and all I know is to cut lumber.  I pass this mess up.  I wired your father he’d better come along out.”

“Is he coming?” asked Bob eagerly.

“I just got a message over the ’phone from the telegraph office.  He’ll be in White Oaks as fast as he can get there.  Didn’t I tell you?”

“Wire him aboard train to go through to Fremont, and that we’ll meet him there,” said Bob instantly.  “It’s getting about time to beard the lion in his den.”

XXXVII

The coroner’s inquest detained Bob over until the week following.  In it Amy’s testimony as to the gun-man’s appearance and evident intention was quite sufficient to excuse Ware’s shooting; and the fact that Oldham, as he was still known, instead of Saleratus Bill, received the bullet was evidently sheer unavoidable accident.  Bob’s testimony added little save corroboration.  As soon as he could get away, he took the road to Fremont.

Orde was awaiting his son at the station.  Bob saw the straight, heavy figure, the tanned face with the snow-white moustache, before the train had come to a stop.  Full of eagerness, he waved his hat over the head of the outraged porter barricaded on the lower steps by his customary accumulation of suit cases.

“Hullo, dad!  Hullo, there!” he shouted again and again, quite oblivious to the amusement of the other passengers over this tall and bronzed young man’s enthusiasm.

Orde caught sight of his son at last; his face lit up, and he, too, swung his hat.  A moment later they had clasped hands.

After the first greetings, Bob gave his suit case in charge to the hotel bus-man.

“We’ll take a little walk up the street and talk things over,” he suggested.