“Looks as if we might be in real trouble to me!” muttered Douglas.

“It’s growing daylight and there’s the Pass, at last!” suddenly cried Judith.

Douglas drew a deep breath and urged on the weary horses.

It was full nine o’clock when the team drew up at the post-office door.  At Doug’s halloo, Peter Knight appeared.  Sister crowded out the door past him, pricked her ears forward and ran to sniff at the rear of the buckboard.

“What on earth brings you back at this hour?” demanded Peter.

“Trouble!” Douglas moistened his frost-cracked lips.  “Oscar Jefferson was shot last night.  We got his body here.”

“Who shot him?” asked Peter.

“We don’t know.”

“Where was it?  Here, Sister, get back in the house!” Peter jerked the door wide.

Judith answered.  “Up beyond the cedars, across from the half-way house. 
We found him while we were hunting for that devilish old mule.”

Peter looked keenly at the two haggard young faces, then he said, “You two come in and eat and get warm.  I’ll do some telephoning.”

“I want to get home to my mother,” half sobbed Judith.

“Sha’n’t we take him on to his house?” asked Douglas.

Peter replied impatiently, “You know he was baching it alone while young Jeff’s in California.  You come as I tell you!”

Stiffly the two stumbled out of the stage and into the warmth of Peter’s quarters.  He had just begun his own breakfast and, at his orders, Douglas and Judith devoured it while Peter went to the telephone.  In an incredibly short time John Spencer and Frank Day, the sheriff, galloped up to the door.  To them and to Peter, the young people told their story.

The sheriff asked a number of questions.  After he had finished Douglas queried anxiously: 

“You ain’t going to try and put it on us, Frank?”

Frank grinned.  “Well, I might, if the suspicions I have as to another party prove wrong.”

“Don’t torture ’em, Frank!” protested Peter.  “They’ve been through a good deal for kids.”

“Scott Parsons was the only rider in the valley who didn’t like Oscar,” said John.  “That war they’ve had for two years over the bull was bound to end in trouble.  I warned Oscar.”

“Oscar was more to blame than Scott,” said the sheriff.  “He was the meanest man for hanging out on a fool thing I ever knew.  And I’m just as fond of Oscar as the rest of you.  What was a bull to Oscar!  He could buy a dozen of ’em.  Scott hasn’t a thing on earth except wages for riding and that mangy little herd of slicks he’s picked up.”

“Picked up is right!” grunted John.  “That bull, whoever it belonged to, is standard bred.”

“Scott was born with a nasty temper.”  Peter spoke thoughtfully.  “He told Oscar in front of me he would get him.  That was about two weeks ago.”

“Did Oscar tell any one he was going anywhere?” asked the sheriff.