“Banks?  The sheriff?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, all right.  Suppose you think I’m not to be trusted.”

“No.  But we’ll leave it that way till I see you again.  Write in if you need me—­and take care of yourself.  When you get ready to settle down, I’ll turn over your share of the Concho to you.  So long, Will.”

Will Corliss watched his brother drive away.  When the team had disappeared up the road he walked down the street to the sheriff’s office.  The sheriff greeted him cordially.

“I came for that money, Jim.”

“Sure!  Here you are,” and the sheriff handed him a five-dollar gold-piece.

“Quit kidding and come across,” said Corliss, ignoring the significance of the allowance.

“Can’t, Will.  John said to give you five any time you wanted it, but only five a day.”

“He did, eh?  John’s getting mighty close in his old age, ain’t he?”

“Mebby.  I don’t know.”

“How much did he leave for me?”

“Five a day, as I said.”

“Oh, you go to hell!”

The sheriff smiled pleasantly.  “Nope, Billy!  I’m goin’ to stay right to home.  Have a cigar?”

The young man refused the proffered cigar, picked up the gold-piece and strolled out.

The sheriff leaned back in his chair.  “Well if Billy feels that way toward folks, reckon he won’t get far with John, or anybody else.  Too dinged bad.  He used to be a good kid.”

CHAPTER VII

FADEAWAY’S HAND

Fadeaway, one of the Concho riders, urged his cayuse through the ford, reined short, and turned to watch Chance, who accompanied him.  The dog drew back from the edge of the stream and bunching himself, shot up and over the muddy water, nor did the jump break his stride as he leaped to overtake the rider, who had spurred out of his way.  Fadeaway cursed joyously and put his pony to a lope.  Stride for stride Chance ran beside him.  The cowboy, swaying easily, turned and looked down upon the dog.  Chance was enjoying himself.  “Wonder how fast the cuss can run?” And Fadeaway swung his quirt.  The stride quickened to the rhythmic beat of the cow-horse at top speed.  The dog kept abreast without apparent effort.  A half-mile beyond the ford the pace slackened as the pony took the hill across which the trail led to the open mesas.  As they topped the rise Fadeaway again urged his cayuse to a run, for the puncher had enjoyed the hospitality of his companions of “The Blue,” a distant cattle ranch, a day longer than had been set for his return to the Concho.  Just then a startled jack rabbit leaped up and bounced down the trail ahead of them.  Fadeaway jerked his horse to a stop.  “Now we’ll see some real speed!” he said.  There was a flash of the dog’s long body, which grew smaller and smaller in the distance; then a puff of dust spurted up.  Fadeaway saw the dog turn end over end, regain his feet and toss something in the air.