“How do I know you’re tellin’ me the truth?” They had gone back to Jimmie Clayton, Bedloe speaking suspiciously again.  “How do I know you ain’t puttin’ up a game on me?  It’s a nice lonely place, where that dugout is.”

The flush died out of the cowboy’s tanned skin as swiftly as it had run into it.

“I guess you can’t tell,” he retorted.  “Unless you go and find out.  And you know if I wanted to get you I could have got you in there, and I could have got you that time at Smith’s.  And,” with an impudence to match Bedloe’s, “I could get you now!”

The Kid passed over the remark, his brows knitted thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said in a moment, “you’ve shot your wad now, ain’t you?  I guess there ain’t no call for me an’ you to talk all day.”

“That’s all.  What’ll I tell Jimmie?”

“You can tell him he ain’t made no mistake.  You may be lyin’ an’ you may be tippin’ me the straight.  But he is a pal of mine an’ a damn decent little pal, an’ I’ll take a chance.”

“You’ll get him?”

“If he’s there I’ll get him.”

“When?”

“You’d like the time o’ day to the minute, I reckon!” He laughed softly.  “Jus’ the first show I get, which’ll be in three or four days.”

“If you want a horse for him after a while, a good horse, I’ll give him one.  That’s the best I can do.  And I guess that’s all, Bedloe.”

Thornton stepped back toward his horse.  Bedloe turned abruptly and strode through the crowd of men on the sidewalk and back to the saloon and his game, no doubt.  Thornton swung up into the saddle, and riding swiftly, passed down the street and back toward the range.  As he went he felt little satisfaction in an errand done, little relief to have it over.  For he was thinking of the look in a girl’s eyes, and again a flush ran up into his cheeks, the bright flush of anger.

CHAPTER XVI

A GUARDED CONFERENCE

With flaming eyes Winifred Waverly whirled upon her uncle.

“Why do you suffer it?” she cried hotly.  “The man knows that I was not deceived by his idiotic mask, he knows that I have told you, and still you let him go free where he pleases, swagger about with brawlers like that horrible Kid Bedloe, and dribble your money over the bars for drink and over the poker tables!  Why do you suffer it?”

A fleeting smile of deep satisfaction brightened Pollard’s eyes.  They had ridden home in silence and now, with the door barely closed behind them, she had turned upon him with her indignant question.

“I am waiting,” began Pollard.

“Waiting for what?” she demanded.  “Until he can have had time to squander what is rightfully yours, until there be no chance of getting it back or bringing such a man to justice!”

“You little fire-eater!” he laughed at her.  “Come with me in here.”  He turned and led the way into the room just off the hall and at the front of the house where he had his office.  When the door was closed behind him he dropped into a chair, his face a little white and drawn from the exertion of his ride, the first he had had since the girl had come.  “I want to talk with you, and I don’t want anybody, Mrs. Riddell in particular, to overhear.  She’s too fond of talking.”