It was evident to Doris that Pete was an authority, not without honor in his own country, and an authority not to be questioned, for Ruth gravely informed Doris that Pete could “wide” and “wope” and knew everything about “forces” and “cows.”

Meanwhile Pete, seated on the edge of his cot, was telling the plain-clothes men that he was willing to go with them whenever they were ready, stipulating, however, that he wanted to visit the Stockmen’s Security and Savings Bank first, and as soon as possible.  Incidentally he stubbornly refused to admit that he had anything to do with the killing of Brent, whom the sheriff of Sanborn had finally identified as the aforetime foreman of the Olla.

“There’s nothing personal about this, young fella,” said one of the men as Pete’s dark eyes blinked somberly.  “It’s our business, that’s all.”

“And it’s a dam’ crawlin’ business,” asserted Pete.  “You couldn’t even let The Spider cross over peaceful.”

“I reckon he earned all he got,” said one of the men.

“Mebby.  But it took three fast guns to git him—­and he put them out of business first.  I’d ‘a’ liked to seen some of you rubber-heeled heifers tryin’ to put the irons on him.”

“That kind of talk won’t do you no good when you’re on the stand, young fella.  It ain’t likely that Sam Brent was your first job.  Your record reads pretty strong for a kid.”

“Meanin’ Gary?  Well, about Gary”—­Pete fumbled in his shirt.  “I got a letter here” . . .  He studied the closely written sheet for a few seconds, then his face cleared.  “Jest run your eye over that.  It’s from Jim Bailey, who used to be my fo’man on the Concho.”

The officers read the letter, one gazing over the other’s shoulder, “Who’s this Jim Bailey, anyhow?”

“He’s a white man—­fo’man of the Concho, and my boss, onct.”

“Well, you’re lucky if what he says is so.  But that don’t square you with the other deal.”

“There’s only one man that could do that,” said Pete.  “And I reckon he ain’t ridin’ where you could git him.”

“That’s all right, Annersley.  But even if you didn’t get Brent, you were on that job.  You were running with a tough bunch.”

“Who’s got my gun?” queried Pete abruptly.

“It’s over to the station with the rest of your stuff.”

“Well, it wa’n’t a forty-five that put Brent out of business.  My gun is.”

“You can tell that to the sheriff of Sanborn County.  And you’ll have a hard time proving that you never packed any other gun.”

“You say it’s the sheriff of Sanborn County that’ll be wantin’ to know?”

“Yes.  We’re holding you for him.”

“That’s different.  I reckon I kin talk to him.”

^Well, you’ll get a chance.  He’s in town—–­waiting to take you over to Sanborn.”

“I sure would like to have a talk with him,” said Pete.  “Would you mind tellin’ him that?”