Within thirty feet of the deputy Malvey reined in.  “You’re ridin’ late,” he said, with a forced friendliness in his voice.

“This the trail to Showdown?” queried the deputy.

“This is her.  Lookin’ for anybody in particular?”

“Nope.  And I reckon nobody is lookin’ for me.  I’m ridin my own horse.”

It was a chance shot intended to open the way to a parley—­and identify the strange horseman by his voice, if possible.  It also was a challenge, if the unknown cared to accept it as such.  Malvey’s slow mind awakened to the situation.  A streak of red flashed from his hand as he spurred straight for the deputy, who slipped from his saddle and began firing over it, shielded by his pony.  A rifle snarled in the draw.  Malvey jerked straight as a soft-nosed slug tore through him.  Another slug shattered his thigh.  Cursing, he lunged sideways, as Blue Smoke bucked.  Malvey toppled and fell—­an inert bulk in the dim light of the stars.

The chief deputy struck a match and stooped.  “We got the wrong man,” he called to his companions.

“It’s Bull Malvey,” said one of the deputies as the match flickered out.  “I knew him in Phoenix.”

“Heard of him.  He was a wild one,” said another deputy.

“Comin’ and goin’!  One of The Spider’s bunch, and a hoss-thief right!  I reckon we done a good job.”

“He went for his gun,” said the chief.

“We had him covered from the start,” asserted a deputy.  “He sure won’t steal no more hosses.”

“Catch up his cayuse,” commanded the chief deputy.

Two of them, after a hard ride, finally put Blue Smoke within reach of a rope.  He was led back to where Malvey lay.

“Concho brand!” exclaimed the chief.

“Young Pete’s horse,” asserted another.

“There’ll be hell to pay if Showdown gets wise to what happened to Bull Malvey,” said the deputy, who recognized the dead outlaw.

Dawn was just breaking when the chief deputy, disgusted with what he termed their “luck,” finally evolved a plan out of the many discussed by his companions.  “We got the cayuse—­which will look good to the T-Bar-T boys.  We ain’t down here for our health and we been up against it from start to finish—­and so far as I care, this is the finish.  Get it right afore we start.  Young Pete is dead.  We got his horse.”  He paused and glanced sharply at Blue Smoke.  “He’s got the Concho brand!” he exclaimed.

“Young Pete’s horse was a blue roan,” said a deputy.  “I guess this is him—­blue roan with a white blaze on his nose—­so Cotton told me.”

“Looks like it!” said the chief deputy.  “Well, say we got his horse, then.  We’re in luck for once.”

“Now it’s easy diggin’ down there in the draw.  And it’s gettin’ daylight fast.  I reckon that’s Malvey’s saddle and bridle on the blue roan.  We’ll just cover up all evidence of who was ridin’ this hoss, drift into Showdown and eat, and then ride along up north and collect that reward.  We’ll split her even—­and who’s goin’ to say we didn’t earn it?”