When, at last, he had mended his cinch and rode Comet out towards the east and the mountains upon the flank of the Poison Hole, he had made up his mind what he was going to do.

“It’s a gamble,” he told himself coolly.  “But I guess I’ve got to gamble now.  And I’m going to play it heavy.”

CHAPTER XXVII

JIMMIE SQUARES HIMSELF

A horseman was riding toward him upon the far bank of the Big Little River where it straightened out beyond the cabin.  He recognized the horse and a moment later the rider now waving his hat to him, and knew that it was Two-Hand Billy Comstock returning.  He turned and rode slowly to meet the officer.

“Back already, Comstock?” he called carelessly.  “What luck?”

“Bully luck,” grinned Comstock, replacing his hat and looking as fresh and well groomed as though he were but this minute up from bed and a long sleep.  “First let me tell you the news.”  He slipped his hand into his breast pocket and took out an envelope.  “More mail for you, Thornton!  You’re doing a big correspondence, it seems to me!”

In spite of him a quick flush ran up to Thornton’s brow.  For his first thought was that Winifred Waverly....

“Wrong guess, Buck,” chuckled Comstock, his good humour seemingly flowing from an inexhaustible source.  “It’s from a man.”

“Who?” demanded Thornton sharply, putting out his hand.

Comstock’s amusement welled up into open laughter.

“It’s a prime joke of the Fates,” he cried cheerfully.  “Here is William Comstock, United States Deputy Marshal, carrying a message from no less a person than Jimmie Clayton, jail bird, crook and murderer!  A man wanted in two states!”

“Clayton!” said Thornton in amazement.  “You don’t mean to tell me....”

“Oh, he’d never seen me, you know.  Nor I him.  But then I’ve seen his picture more than once and I know all about him.  He’s keeping low but he took a chance on me.  I was just a whiskey drummer last night, you know, and happened to let it out that I was riding this way this morning on my way to Dry Town.  So Jimmie slipped me the letter!  Read it.”

Thornton took it, wondering.  The envelope was sealed and much soiled where Jimmie Clayton’s hand had closed the mucilaged flap.  He tore it open and read almost at a glance: 

Deere buck come the same place tonight I want to put you wise.  Theare is sum danger to you buck.  Keap your eyes open on the way.  I will be there late tonight.

j.C.

Thornton looked up to see the twinkling eyes of Two-Hand Billy Comstock watching him.

“You had better tell me what he says,” said Comstock coolly.  “I don’t know but that I should have been well within my rights to open it, eh?  But I hate to open another man’s private mail.”

Thornton hesitated.

He must not forget that Comstock was an officer—­that even now he was upon a state errand—­that it was his duty to bring such men as Jimmie Clayton to justice.  He must not forget that Clayton had been a friend to him—­or, at least, that he had credited the crook with a feeling of friendship and the care of a friend.