There was a tramp of feet outside, and when a big grim-faced man looked in at the door, Courthorne decided it was time for him to effect his retreat while it could be done with safety.  He knew already that there were two doors to the saloon, and his fingers closed on the neck of a decanter.  Next moment it smote the new-comer on the chest, and while he staggered backwards with the fluid trickling from him, Courthorne departed through the opposite entrance.  Once outside, he mounted leisurely, but nobody came out from the hotel, and shaking the bridle with a little laugh he cantered out of the settlement.

In the meanwhile the other man carefully wiped his garments, and then turned to his companion.

“Now what’s all this about?” he asked.

The girl told him, and the man ruminated for a minute or two.  “Well, he’s gone, and I don’t know that I’m sorry there wasn’t a circus here,” he said.  “I figured there was something not square about that fellow any way.  Registered as Guyler from Minnesota, but I’ve seen somebody like him among the boys from Silverdale.  Guess I’ll find out when I ride over about the horse, and then I’ll have a talk with him quietly.”

In the meanwhile, the police trooper who had handed him the packet returned to the outpost, and, as it happened, found the grizzled Sergeant Stimson, who appeared astonished to see him back so soon, there.

“I met Courthorne near his homestead, and gave him the papers, sir,” he said.

“You did?” said the Sergeant.  “Now that’s kind of curious, because he’s at the bridge.”

“It couldn’t have been anybody else, because he took the documents and signed for them,” said the trooper.

“Big bay horse?”

“No, sir,” said the trooper.  “It was a bronco, and a screw at that.”

“Well,” said Stimson dryly, “let me have your book.  If Payne has come in, tell him I want him.”

The trooper went out, and when his comrade came in, Stimson laid a strip of paper before him.  “You have seen Courthorne’s writing,” he said:  “would you call it anything like that?”

“No, sir,” said Trooper Payne.  “I would not!”

Stimson nodded.  “Take a good horse, and ride round by the bridge.  If you find Courthorne there, as you probably will, head for the settlement and see if you can come across a man who might pass for him.  Ask your questions as though the answer didn’t count, and tell nobody what you hear but me.”

Payne rode out, and when he returned three days later, Sergeant Stimson made a journey to confer with one of his superiors.  The officer was a man who had risen in the service somewhat rapidly, and when he heard the tale, said nothing while he turned over a bundle of papers a trooper brought him.  Then he glanced at Stimson thoughtfully.

“I have a report of the Shannon shooting case here,” he said.  “How did it strike you at the time?”