“Good work, son,” he managed to whisper, a quaver in his throat.  “I’d rather we’d lost the whole works than to have had that happen to the boys, a hundred times rather.  I reckon it must ‘a’ been mighty bad up there when the back-fire caught you.  The boys have been tellin’ me.  You saved all their lives, I judge.”

“I happened to know where the cave was.”

“Yes.”  Crawford’s whisper was sadly ironic.  “Well, I’m sure glad you happened to know that.  If you hadn’t....”  The old cattleman gave a little gesture that completed the sentence.  The tragedy that had taken place had shaken his soul.  He felt in a way responsible.

“If the doc ain’t busy now, I reckon Dave could use him,” Bob said.  “I reckon he needs a li’l’ attention.  Then I’m ready for grub an’ a sleep twice round the clock.  If any one asks me, I’m sure enough dead beat.  I don’t ever want to look at a shovel again.”

“Doc’s fixin’ up Lanier’s burnt laig.  He’d oughtta be through soon now.  I’ll have him ’tend to Dave’s burns right away then,” said Crawford.  He turned to Sanders.  “How about it, son?  You sure look bunged up pretty bad.”

“I’m about all in,” admitted Dave.  “Reckon we all are.  Shorty gone yet?”

“Yes.  Lit out after he’d made a report.  Said he had an engagement to meet a man.  Expect he meant he had an engagement not to meet the sheriff.  I rec’lect when Shorty was a mighty promisin’ young fellow before Brad Steelman got a-holt of him.  He punched cows for me twenty years ago.  He hadn’t took the wrong turn then.  You cayn’t travel crooked trails an’ not reach a closed pocket o’ the hills sometime.”

For several minutes they had heard the creaking of a wagon working up an improvised road toward the camp.  Now it moved into sight.  The teamster called to Crawford.

“Here’s another load o’ grub, boss.  Miss Joyce she rustled up them canteens you was askin’ for.”

Crawford stepped over to the wagon.  “Don’t reckon we’ll need the canteens, Hank, but we can use the grub fine.  The fire’s about out.”

“That’s bully.  Say, I got news for you, Mr. Crawford.  Brad Steelman’s dead.  They found him in his house, shot plumb through the head.  I reckon he won’t do you any more meanness.”

“Who killed him?”

“They ain’t sayin’,” returned the teamster cautiously.  “Some folks was guessin’ that mebbe Dug Doble could tell, but there ain’t any evidence far’s I know.  Whoever it was robbed the safe.”

The old cattleman made no comment.  From the days of their youth Steelman had been his bitter enemy, but death had closed the account between them.  His mind traveled back to those days twenty-five years ago when he and the sheepman had both hitched their horses in front of Helen Radcliff’s home.  It had been a fair fight between them, and he had won as a man should.  But Brad had not taken his defeat as a man should.  He had nourished bitterness and played his successful rival many a mean despicable trick.  Out of these had grown the feud between them.  Crawford did not know how it had come about, but he had no doubt Steelman had somehow fallen a victim in the trap he had been building for others.