“They’ve rode hard, them two,” said one of the men thoughtfully.  “Their horses is all in.”

“The Kid ahead an’ Buck Thornton followin’!” grunted the other musingly.  “An’ the Kid never lookin’ around!”

He shook his head and, long after both of the riders had passed out of sight down the crooked street these two men looked after them wonderingly.

At Pollard’s gate the Kid dismounted stiffly.  Now for the first time Thornton came up to him.

“If you think Broderick’s in there,” he said sharply, “you’d better let me go ahead.  You’re in no shape, Bedloe....”

“You go to hell,” said Bedloe heavily.  “He’s mine.”

He stepped forward and pulled open the gate.  Here he paused just long enough to drag his revolver from the holster at his hip.  With the weapon in his hand, swaying in his long-strided walk, he went to Pollard’s front door.  Just behind him, almost at his heels, came Thornton.

As he tried the door cautiously the Kid looked over his shoulder with a show of teeth.

“He’s mine,” he snarled again.  “You keep your hands off.”

Thornton offered no answer.  The Kid, having ascertained that the door was locked, drew back, steadied himself with his hand against the wall, lifted his foot and with all of the power in him drove his heavy boot against the lock.  Something broke; the panel splintered; the door gave a little.  But only a little; the heavy bar which Henry Pollard used was in its place.

“Again,” said Thornton.  “Together!...  Quick!”

So together Buck Thornton and Kid Bedloe, two men who had long hated each other, struck savagely at Pollard’s barricade.  And such was the weight of the two men, such the power resident in the two big bodies, that a hinge gave and after it an iron socket screwed to the wall was torn away from the woodwork, and the door went down.

Gathering all there was of strength left in him Kid Bedloe pushed to the fore and went down the hall; and Thornton followed at his heels.  In this fashion they came to the door of Pollard’s study and saw through it, since it had been flung wide open and so left.

In a far corner of the room was Winifred Waverly, her face dead white, her body pressed tight into the angle of the walls, her hands twisting before her, her eyes going swiftly to the two entering figures from that other figure which had held her fascinated.  Upon the floor, just rising, knelt Ben Broderick.  He had tossed a rug aside and had lifted out the short sections of half a dozen strips of flooring, disclosing a rude wooden vault below.  Here was the accumulation of loot, here where the Kid had known Broderick was to be found.