“Smith’s place,” he informed her briefly.

Already three dogs had run to meet them, with much barking and simulated fierceness, and a man and a woman had come to the door.

“Hello,” called the man.  “Who is it?”

“Hello, John.  It’s Thornton.  Howdy, Mrs. Smith.”  Thornton tossed his saddle to the ground, pushed down one of the dogs that had recognized him and was leaping up on him.  “Mrs. Smith, this is Miss Waverly from Dry Town.  A friend of the Templetons.  She’ll be grateful if you could take her in for the night.”

Man and wife came out, shook hands with the girl, the woman led her into the cabin, and Smith took her horse.  Then the rancher saw Thornton’s saddle.

“Where’s your horse?” he asked quickly.

“Back at Harte’s.  Lame.”

In a very few words he told of a deep knife cut beneath the fetlock, explained Miss Waverly’s presence with him, and ended by demanding,

“Who do you suppose did that trick for me, John?  It’s got me buffaloed.”

Smith shook his head thoughtfully.

“By me, Buck,” he answered slowly.  “Most likely some jasper you’ve had trouble with an’ is too yeller to get even any other way.  I haven’t seen any of your friends from Hill’s Corners stickin’ around though.  Have you?”

“No.  But Miss Waverly saw somebody on the trail the other side of Harte’s this afternoon.  Mistook him for me until I told her.  A big man about my size riding a sorrel.  Know who it was?”

Again Smith shook his head.

“Can’t call him to mind, Buck.  It might be Huston for size, but he hasn’t got a sorrel in his string, an’ then he’s took on too much fat lately to be mistook for you.  Go on inside.  You’ll want to eat, I guess.  I’ll put up the lady’s horse an’ be with you in two shakes.”

“Thanks, John.  But I had supper back at Harte’s.  Can you let me have a horse in the morning?  I’ll send him back by one of the boys.”

“Sure.  Take the big roan.  An’ you don’t have to send him back, either.  I’m ridin’ that way myself tomorrow, an’ I’ll drop by an’ get him.”

“Which way are you ridin’?”

“To the Bar X. I got word last week three or four of my steers was over there.  I want to see about ’em.  Before,” he added drily, “they get any closer to Dead Man’s.”

Thornton’s nod indicated that he understood.  And then, suddenly, he said,

“If you’re going that way you can see Miss Waverly through, can’t you?  She’s going to the Corners.”

Smith whistled softly.

“Now what the devil is the like of her goin’ to that town for?” he demanded.

“I don’t know the answer.  But she’s going there.”  And as partial explanation, he added, “She’s Henry Pollard’s niece.”

For a moment Smith pondered the information in silence.  Then his only reference to it was a short spoken, “Well, she don’t look it!  Anyway, that’s her look-out, an’ I’ll see her within half a dozen miles of the border.  You’ll turn off this side the Poison Hole, huh?”