Quickly Dave gave directions to his friend.  “Duck back into the restaurant, Bob.  Get a pocketful of dry rice from the Chink.  Trail those birds to their nest and find where they roost.  Then stick around like a burr.  Scatter rice behind you, and I’ll drift along later.  First off, I got to stay and talk with Miss Joyce.  And, say, take along a rope.  Might need it.”

A moment later Hart was in the restaurant commandeering rice and Sanders was lifting his dusty hat to the young woman in the buggy.

“If I can he’p you any, Miss Joyce,” he said.

Beneath dark and delicate brows she frowned at him.  “Who are you?”

“Dave Sanders my name is.  I reckon you never heard tell of me.  I punch cows for yore father.”

Her luminous, hazel-brown eyes steadied in his, read the honesty of his simple, boyish heart.

“You heard what I said to that man?”

“Part of it.”

“Well, it’s true.  I know it is, but I can’t prove it.”

Hart, moving swiftly down the street, waved a hand at his friend as he passed.  Without turning his attention from Joyce Crawford, Dave acknowledged the signal.

“How do you know it?”

“Steelman’s men have been watching our house.  They were hanging around at different times day before yesterday.  This man Shorty was one.”

“Any special reason for the feud to break out right now?”

“Father was going to prove up on a claim this week—­the one that takes in the Tularosa water-holes.  You know the trouble they’ve had about it—­how they kept breaking our fences to water their sheep and cattle.  Don’t you think maybe they’re trying to keep him from proving up?”

“Maybeso.  When did you see him last?”

Her lip trembled.  “Night before last.  After supper he started for the Cattleman’s Club, but he never got there.”

“Sure he wasn’t called out to one of the ranches unexpected?”

“I sent out to make sure.  He hasn’t been seen there.”

“Looks like some of Brad Steelman’s smooth work,” admitted Dave.  “If he could work yore father to sign a relinquishment—­”

Fire flickered in her eye.  “He’d ought to know Dad better.”

“Tha’s right too.  But Brad needs them water-holes in his business bad.  Without ’em he loses the whole Round Top range.  He might take a crack at turning the screws on yore father.”

“You don’t think—?” She stopped, to fight back a sob that filled her soft throat.

Dave was not sure what he thought, but he answered cheerfully and instantly.  “No, I don’t reckon they’ve dry-gulched him or anything.  Emerson Crawford is one sure-enough husky citizen.  He couldn’t either be shot or rough-housed in town without some one hearin’ the noise.  What’s more, it wouldn’t be their play to injure him, but to force a relinquishment.”

“That’s true.  You believe that, don’t you?” Joyce cried eagerly.