A question brought his mind back to the present.  The teamster was talking:  “... so she started pronto.  I s’pose you wasn’t as bad hurt as Sanders figured.”

“What’s that?” asked Crawford.

“I was sayin’ Miss Joyce she started right away when the note come from Sanders.”

“What note?”

“The one tellin’ how you was hurt in the fire.”

Crawford turned.  “Come here, Dave,” he called hoarsely.

Sanders moved across.

“Hank says you sent a note to Joyce sayin’ I’d been hurt.  What about it?”

“Why would I do that when you’re not hurt?”

“Then you didn’t?”

“Of course not,” answered Dave, perplexed.

“Some one’s been stringin’ you, Hank,” said Crawford, smiling.

The teamster scratched his head.  “No, sir.  I was there when she left.  About twelve o’clock last night, mebbe later.”

“But Sanders says he didn’t send a note, and Joyce didn’t come here.  So you must ‘a’ missed connections somewhere.”

“Probably you saw her start for home,” suggested Dave.

Hank stuck to his guns.  “No, sir.  She was on that sorrel of hers, an’ Keith was ridin’ behind her.  I saddled myself and took the horse to the store.  They was waitin’ there for me, the two young folks an’ Juan.”

“Juan?”

“Juan Otero.  He brought the note an’ rode back with her.”

The old cattleman felt a clutch of fear at his heart.  Juan Otero was one of Dug Doble’s men.

“That all you know, Hank?”

“That’s all.  Miss Joyce said for me to get this wagonload of grub out soon as I could.  So I come right along.”

“Doble been seen in town lately?” asked Dave.

“Not as I know of.  Shorty has.”

“Shorty ain’t in this.”

“Do you reckon—?”

Sanders cut the teamster short.  “Some of Doble’s work.  But I don’t see why he sent for Keith too.”

“He didn’t.  Keith begged to go along an’ Miss Joyce took him.”

In the haggard, unshaven face of the cattleman Dave read the ghastly fear of his own soul.  Doble was capable of terrible evil.  His hatred, jealousy, and passion would work together to poison his mind.  The corners of his brain had always been full of lust and obscenity.  There was this difference between him and Shorty.  The squat cowpuncher was a clean scoundrel.  A child, a straight girl, an honest woman, would be as safe with him as with simple-hearted old Buck Byington.  But Dug Doble—­it was impossible to predict what he would do.  He had a vein of caution in his make-up, but when in drink he jettisoned this and grew ugly.  His vanity—­always a large factor in determining his actions—­might carry him in the direction of decency or the reverse.

“I’m glad Keith’s with her,” said Hart, who had joined the group.  “With Keith and the Mexican there—­” His meaning did not need a completed sentence.