From the aspens came down Crawford’s voice, cool and ironic.  “Much obliged, Shorty.  Leave ’em right up and save trouble.”

The squat cowpuncher’s eyes moved back to the aspens and found there the owner of the D Bar Lazy R.  “Wha’dya want?” he growled sullenly.

“You—­just now.  Step right out from the house, Shorty.  Tha’s right.  Anybody else in the house?”

“No.”

“You’ll be luckier if you tell the truth.”

“I’m tellin’ it.”

“Hope so.  Dave, step forward and get his six-shooter.  Keep him between you and the house.  If anything happens to you I’m goin’ to kill him right now.”

Shorty shivered, hardy villain though he was.  There had been nobody in the house when he left it, but he had been expecting some one shortly.  If his partner arrived and began shooting, he knew that Crawford would drop him in his tracks.  His throat went dry as a lime kiln.  He wanted to shout out to the man who might be inside not to shoot at any cost.  But he was a game and loyal ruffian.  He would not spoil his confederate’s chance by betraying him.  If he said nothing, the man might come, realize the situation, and slip away unobserved.

Sanders took the man’s gun and ran his hand over his thick body to make sure he had no concealed weapon.

“I’m going to back away.  You come after me, step by step, so close I could touch you with the gun,” ordered Dave.

The man followed him as directed, his hands still in the air.  His captor kept him in a line between him and the house door.  Crawford rode down to join them.  The man who claimed not to be foolhardy stayed up in the timber.  This was no business of his.  He did not want to be the target of any shots from the cabin.

The cattleman swung down from the saddle.  “Sure we’ll ’light and come in, Shorty.  No, you first.  I’m right at yore heels with this gun pokin’ into yore ribs.  Don’t make any mistake.  You’d never have time to explain it.”

The cabin had only one room.  The bunks were over at one side, the stove and table at the other.  Two six-pane windows flanked the front door.

The room was empty, except for the three men now entering.

“You live here, Shorty?” asked Crawford curtly.

“Yes.”  The answer was sulky and reluctant.

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” snapped the cattleman.

Shorty’s defiant eyes met his.  “My business.”

“Mine, too, I’ll bet a dollar.  If you’re nestin’ in these hills you cayn’t have but one business.”

“Prove it!  Prove it!” retorted Shorty angrily.

“Some day—­not now.”  Crawford turned to Sanders.  “What about the horse you looked at, Dave?”

“Same one we’ve been trailing.  The one with the broken shoe.”

“That yore horse, Shorty?”

“Maybeso.  Maybe not.”

“You’ve been havin’ company here lately,” Crawford went on.  “Who’s yore guest?”