The cowboys, who had come up, moved restlessly.  Lem Billings dropped his head, muttering.  Montana Jim froze in his tracks.

Moore’s dark eyes, scornful and piercing, never moved from Jack’s face.  It seemed as if the cowboy would never speak again.

“You call me thief!  You?” at length he exclaimed.

“Yes, I do,” replied Belllounds, loudly.

“Before this sheriff and your father you accuse me of stealing cattle?”

“Yes.”

“And you accuse me before this man who saved my life, who knows me—­before Hell-Bent Wade?” demanded Moore, as he pointed to the hunter.

Mention of Wade in that significant tone of passion and wonder was not without effect upon Jack Belllounds.

“What in hell do I care for Wade?” he burst out, with the old intolerance.  “Yes, I accuse you.  Thief, rustler!...  And for all I know your precious Hell-Bent Wade may be—­”

He was interrupted by Burley’s quick and authoritative interference.

“Hyar, young man, I’m allowin’ for your natural feelin’s,” he said, dryly, “but I advise you to bite your tongue.  I ain’t acquainted with Mister Moore, but I happen to know Wade.  Do you savvy?...  Wal, then, if you’ve any more to say to Moore get it over.”

“I’ve had my say,” replied Belllounds, sullenly.

“On what grounds do you accuse me?” demanded Moore.

“I trailed you.  I’ve got my proofs.”

Burley stepped off the porch and carefully laid down his package.

“Moore, will you get off your hoss?” he asked.  And when the cowboy had dismounted and limped aside the sheriff continued, “Is this the hoss you ride most?”

“He’s the only one I have.”

Burley sat down upon the edge of the porch and, carefully unwrapping the package, he disclosed some pieces of hard-baked yellow mud.  The smaller ones bore the imprint of a circle with a dot in the center, very clearly defined.  The larger piece bore the imperfect but reasonably clear track of a curiously shaped horseshoe, somewhat triangular.  The sheriff placed these pieces upon the ground.  Then he laid hold of Moore’s crutch, which was carried like a rifle in a sheath hanging from the saddle, and, drawing it forth, he carefully studied the round cap on the end.  Next he inserted this end into both the little circles on the pieces of mud.  They fitted perfectly.  The cowboys bent over to get a closer view, and Billings was wagging his head.  Old Belllounds had an earnest eye for them, also.  Burley’s next move was to lift the left front foot of Moore’s horse and expose the bottom to view.  Evidently the white mustang did not like these proceedings, but he behaved himself.  The iron shoe on this hoof was somewhat triangular in shape.  When Burley held the larger piece of mud, with its imprint, close to the hoof, it was not possible to believe that this iron shoe had not made the triangular-shaped track.