Then I concerned myself with a cold grip of desire to get near the rustler who had wounded Steele.  As I started forward, however, Miss Sampson defeated me.  Sally once more clung to my hands, and directly we were surrounded by an excited circle.

It took a moment or two to calm them.

“Then there’s a rustler—­here—­hiding?” repeated Miss Sampson.

“Miss Sampson, I’ll find him.  I’ll rout him out,” I said.

“Yes, yes, find him, Russ, but don’t use violence,” she replied.  “Send him away—­no, give him over to—­”

“Nothing of the kind,” interrupted George Wright, loud-voiced.  “Cousin, go on with your dance.  I’ll take a couple of cowboys.  I’ll find this—­this rustler, if there’s one here.  But I think it’s only another bluff of Steele’s.”

This from Wright angered me deeply, and I strode right for the door.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“I’ve Miss Sampson’s orders.  She wants me to find this hidden man.  She trusts me not to allow any violence.”

“Didn’t I say I’d see to that?” he snarled.

“Wright, I don’t care what you say,” I retorted.  “But I’m thinking you might not want me to find this rustler.”

Wright turned black in the face.  Verily, if he had worn a gun he would have pulled it on me.  As it was, Miss Sampson’s interference probably prevented more words, if no worse.

“Don’t quarrel,” she said.  “George, you go with Russ.  Please hurry.  I’ll be nervous till the rustler’s found or you’re sure there’s not one.”

We started with several cowboys to ransack the house.  We went through the rooms, searching, calling out, flashing our lanterns in dark places.

It struck me forcibly that Wright did all the calling.  He hurried, too, tried to keep in the lead.  I wondered if he knew his voice would be recognized by the hiding man.

Be that as it might, it was I who peered into a dark corner, and then with a cocked gun leveled I said:  “Come out!”

He came forth into the flare of lanterns, a tall, slim, dark-faced youth, wearing dark sombrero, blouse and trousers.  I collared him before any of the others could move, and I held the gun close enough to make him shrink.

But he did not impress me as being frightened just then; nevertheless, he had a clammy face, the pallid look of a man who had just gotten over a shock.  He peered into my face, then into that of the cowboy next to me, then into Wright’s and if ever in my life I beheld relief I saw it then.

That was all I needed to know, but I meant to find out more if I could.

“Who’re you?” I asked quietly.

He gazed rather arrogantly down at me.  It always irritated me to be looked down at that way.

“Say, don’t be gay with me or you’ll get it good,” I yelled, prodding him in the side with the cocked gun.  “Who are you?  Quick!”

“Bo Snecker,” he said.