“Where’s Mr. Crawford?” asked Bob.

“He’s in the sitting-room.  Come right in.”

Her father was sitting in a big chair, one leg thrown carelessly over the arm.  He was smoking a cigar composedly.

“Come in, boys,” he called.  “Reckon you’ve heard that I’m a stage rustler and a murderer.”

Joyce cried out at this, the wide, mobile mouth trembling.

“Just now.  At the Gusher,” said Bob.  “They didn’t arrest you?”

“Not yet.  They’re watchin’ the house.  Sit down, and I’ll tell it to you.”

He had gone out to see a homesteader about doing some work for him.  On the way he had met Johnson and Purdy near the Bend, just before he had turned up a draw leading to the place in the hills owned by the man whom he wanted to see.  Two hours had been spent riding to the little valley where the nester had built his corrals and his log house, and when Crawford arrived neither he nor his wife was at home.  He returned to the road, without having met a soul since he had left it, and from there jogged on back to town.  On the way he had fired twice at a rattlesnake.

“You never reached the Bend, then, at all,” said Dave.

“No, but I cayn’t prove I didn’t.”  The old cattleman looked at the end of his cigar thoughtfully.  “Nor I cayn’t prove I went out to Dick Grein’s place in that three-four hours not accounted for.”

“Anyhow, you can show where you got the ten thousand dollars you paid the bank,” said Bob hopefully.

A moment of silence; then Crawford spoke.  “No, son, I cayn’t tell that either.”

Faint and breathless with suspense, Joyce looked at her father with dilated eyes.  “Why not?”

“Because the money was loaned me on those conditions.”

“But—­but—­don’t you see, Dad?—­if you don’t tell that—­”

“They’ll think I’m guilty.  Well, I reckon they’ll have to think it, Joy.”  The steady gray eyes looked straight into the brown ones of the girl.  “I’ve been in this county boy and man for ’most fifty years.  Any one that’s willin’ to think me a cold-blooded murderer at this date, why, he’s welcome to hold any opinion he pleases.  I don’t give a damn what he thinks.”

“But we’ve got to prove—­”

“No, we haven’t.  They’ve got to do the proving.  The law holds me innocent till I’m found guilty.”

“But you don’t aim to keep still and let a lot of miscreants blacken yore good name!” suggested Hart.

“You bet I don’t, Bob.  But I reckon I’ll not break my word to a friend either, especially under the circumstances this money was loaned.”

“He’ll release you when he understands,” cried Joyce.

“Don’t bank on that, honey,” Crawford said slowly.

“You ain’t to mention this.  I’m tellin’ you three private.  He cayn’t come out and tell that he let me have the money.  Understand?  You don’t any of you know a thing about how I come by that ten thousand.  I’ve refused to answer questions about that money.  That’s my business.”