As to his theory of the tracks; he connected them, too, with Jim Courtot.  He knew that for the past three months Courtot had disappeared from his familiar haunts; these were La Casa Blanca, Jim Galloway’s gambling-house in San Juan, and similar places in Tecolote, Big Run, Dos Hermanos and San Ramon.  He knew that only recently, within the week, Courtot had returned from his pilgrimage; that he had come up to Big Run from King Canon way.  He knew that the man who had fled Superstition Pool had turned out in the direction of King Canon, and that that man might or might not have been Jim Courtot.  Finally, he had Sandy Weaver’s word for it that Courtot went deathly-white when he heard of the slain calf and the tracks, and that forthwith Courtot had again disappeared.  The imprint of a man’s bare foot spelled an Indian from the northern wastes, and Courtot, during the three months of his disappearance, had had ample time to go far into the north.  To Howard it seemed a simple thing to imagine that Courtot had committed some deed which had brought after him the unsleeping vengeance of a desert Indian.

In San Juan Howard found a representative of Doan, Rockwell and Haight, the cattle buyers, awaiting him; and the same day the deal was completed, a cheque placed in his hands and the cattle turned over to the buyers’ drivers.  His men he dismissed to their own devices, knowing that they would amuse themselves in San Juan, perhaps stir up a fight with a crowd of miners, and thereafter journey homeward, fully content.  They were not to wait for him, as he had business to delay him a day or so.  From the corrals he went to the bank, placing his cheque for collection with his old friend, John Engle.  Thereafter, while his horse rested and enjoyed its barley at the stables, he turned to the Casa Blanca.  For it was always possible that Jim Courtot was there.

As he stepped in at the deep, wide doorway Howard’s hat was low-drawn, its brim shading his eyes, and he was ready to step swiftly to right or left, to spring forward or back, to shoot quickly if shooting were in the cards.  But he knew upon the moment that Courtot was not here.  At the bar were his own men ranged up thirstily; they saw him and called to him and had no warning to give.  So he passed on down the long room until he stopped at a little table where three men sat.  One of them, a thick, squat fellow with a florid face and small mean eyes, looked up at him and glowered.

‘Where’s Courtot, Yates?’ asked Howard coolly.

Yates stared and finally shrugged.

‘Left town day before yesterday,’ he replied shortly.

’So he was here?  I heard he wanted to see me.  Know which way he has gone?’

Yates studied him keenly.  Then again he lifted his ponderous shoulders.

‘He was looking for you,’ he said, his meaning clear in the hardness of his eyes.  ‘And, if you want to know, he’s up Las Palmas way.’