sinister whizz-zip and he was standing bareheaded in the glaring sun as the black sombrero spun round and settled lightly in the sand beside him.  He wisely thrust up his hands—­arguing that if the posse could see to shoot with such accuracy they could see and possibly appreciate his attitude.  He felt outraged, and wanted to fight.  He did not realize at the moment that his pursuers were acting in good faith according to their viewpoint.

Meanwhile they flung toward him, spreading out fanwise in case of some possible treachery.  Without moving a muscle Andy stood with his hands raised, blinkingly trying to identify each individual rider.

There was Houck on his big gray cow-horse.  To the left rode Simpson, known all over the range as Gary’s close friend.  Andy half-expected to see Cotton with the posse, but Cotton was not there.  He did not recognize the two riders on the wings of the posse.

“Mornin’, fellas!” he called as the cowboys swept up.  “What’s the idea?”

“This!” snarled Simpson as he took out his rope.

“Hold on!” cried Houck, dismounting and covering White.  “This ain’t our man!  It’s young Andy White!”

“You might ‘a’ found that out before you started shootin’,” said Andy, lowering his hands.  “My gun’s on the saddle there.”

Despite the fact that it was Andy White, Houck took no chances, but searched him.  Then, “what in hell was your idea?”

“Me?  Why, I was ridin’ to the Concho when one of you guys shot my hat off.  I reckoned it was about time to pull up.”

“Ridin’ to the Concho, eh?  I suppose you’ll say next that you got lost and thought the Concho was over this way?”

“Nope.  I was ridin’ to the Concho to report the shootin’ of Steve Gary to my boss.”

Houck, who had imagined that White would disclaim any knowledge of the shooting until forced to admit it, took a new tack.  “Where’s Pete Annersley?”

“That’s jest what I was wonderin’.  Last time I see him he was fannin’ it east.  I took out after him—­but I must ‘a’ missed him.”

“That’ll do to tell the sheriff.  We want to know what you know about the shootin’-up of Steve.”

“Nothin’.  I was over by the shack waiting for Pete when I thought I heard a couple of shots.  Didn’t pay no attention to that—­’cause Pete was always poppin’ his gun at somethin’.  Then pretty soon Pete walks in, and I go out with him and help him ketch his hoss.  He don’t say much—­and I don’t.  Then first thing I know he lights on that little buckskin hoss of his—­”

“And forgets his hat,” interrupted Houck.

“Nope.  He was wearin’ a hat the last I seen of him.”

“And ridin’ a buckskin cayuse, eh?  Now Cotton says it was a blue roan.”

Andy laughed.  “That hombre Cotton’s got mighty poor eyesight.  Why, he couldn’t see good enough to ketch up his own hoss.  Pete told me Cotton set out for home afoot.  I didn’t see him, but I’d take Pete’s word against Cotton’s any time.”