“Who done it?” asked Wingle.

“Fadeaway,” murmured the rancher.

Loring, in the rear of the group, laughed ironically.

Shoop’s gun jumped from its holster and covered the sheep-man.  “If one of your lousy herders done this, he’ll graze clost to hell to-night with the rest of your dam’ sheep!” he cried.

“Easy, Bud!” cautioned Wingle.  “The boss ain’t passed over yet.  Bill, you help Sinker here get the boss back home.  The rest of you boys hit the trail for the Blue.  Fadeaway is like to be up in that country.”

“Ante up, Loring!” said Shoop, mounting his horse.  “I’ll see your hand if it takes every chip in the stack.”

“Here, too!” chorused the riders.  “We’re all in on this.”

They trailed along in single file until they came to the ford.  They reined up sharply.  One of them dismounted and dragged the body of Fadeaway to the bank.  They grouped around gazing at the hole in Fadeaway’s shirt.

Shoop turned the body over.  “Got it from in front,” he said, which was obvious to their experienced eyes.

“And it took a fast gun to get him,” asserted Loring.

The men were silent, each visualizing his own theory of the fight on the trail and the killing of Fadeaway.

“Jack was layin’ a long way from here,” said Wingle.

“When you found him,” commented Loring.

“Only one hoss crossed the ford this morning,” announced Shoop, wading across the stream.

“And Fade got it from in front,” commented a puncher.  “His tracks is headed for the Blue.”

Again the men were silent.  Shoop rolled a cigarette.  The splutter of the sulphur-match, as it burned from blue to yellow, startled them.  They relaxed, cursing off their nervous tension in monosyllables.

“Well, Fade’s played his stack, and lost.  Jack was sure in the game, but how far—­I dunno.  Reckon that’s got anything to do with stampedin’ your sheep?” asked Wingle, turning to Loring.

Loring’s deep-set eyes flashed.  “Fernando reported that a Concho rider done the job.  He didn’t say who done it.”

“Didn’t, eh?  And did Fernando say anything about doin’ a job himself?” asked Shoop.

“If you’re tryin’ to hang this onto any of my herders, you’re ridin’ on the wrong side of the river.  I reckon you won’t have to look far for the gun that got him.”  And Loring gestured toward the body.

Hi Wingle stooped and pulled Fadeaway’s gun from its holster.  He spun the cylinder, swung it out, and invited general inspection.  “Fade never had a chance,” he said, lowering the gun.  “They’s six pills in her yet.  You got to show me he wasn’t plugged from behind a rock or them bushes.”  And Wingle pointed toward the cottonwoods.

One of the men rode down the canon, searching for tracks.  Chance, following, circled the bushes, and suddenly set off toward the north.