My crime, the crime of these men from whose dead hands the girl’s appeals had been taken for the “Collection,” was that of curiosity!  The old man would within his own domain reign supreme, in the mental as in the physical world.  The chance cowboy, genuinely desirous only of a resting place for the night, rode away unscathed; but he whom the old man convicted of a prying spirit committed a lese-majesty that could not be forgiven.  And I had made many tracks during my night reconnaissance.

And the same flash of insight showed me that I would be followed wherever I went; and the thing that convinced my intuitions—­not my reason—­of this was the recollection of the old man stamping the remains of the poor little bird into the mud by the willows.  I saw again the insane rage of his face; and I felt cold fingers touching my spine.

On this I went abruptly and unexpectedly to sleep, after the fashion of youth, and did not stir until Sing, the cook, routed us out before dawn.  We were not to ride the range that day because of Jim Starr, but Sing was a person of fixed habits.  I plunged my head into the face of the dawn with a new and light-hearted confidence.  It was one of those clear, nile-green sunrises whose lucent depths go back a million miles or so; and my spirit followed on wings.  Gone were at once my fine-spun theories and my forebodings of the night.  Life was clean and clear and simple.  Jim Starr had probably some personal enemy.  Old Man Hooper was undoubtedly a mean old lunatic, and dangerous; very likely he would attempt to do me harm, as he said, if I bothered him again, but as for following me to the ends of the earth——­

The girl was a different matter.  She required thought.  So, as I was hungry and the day sparkling, I postponed her and went in to breakfast.

CHAPTER VII

By the time the coroner’s inquest and the funeral in town were over it was three o’clock of the afternoon.  As I only occasionally managed Soda Springs I felt no inclination to hurry on the return journey.  My intention was to watch the Overland through, to make some small purchases at the Lone Star Emporium, to hoist one or two at McGrue’s, and to dine sumptuously at the best—­and only—­hotel.  A programme simple in theme but susceptible to variations.

The latter began early.  After posing kiddishly as a rough, woolly, romantic cowboy before the passengers of the Overland, I found myself chaperoning a visitor to our midst.  By sheer accident the visitor had singled me out for an inquiry.

“Can you tell me how to get to Hooper’s ranch?” he asked.

So I annexed him promptly in hope of developments.

He was certainly no prize package, for he was small, pale, nervous, shifty, and rat-like; and neither his hands nor his eyes were still for an instant.  Further to set him apart he wore a hard-boiled hat, a flaming tie, a checked vest, a coat cut too tight for even his emaciated little figure, and long toothpick shoes of patent leather.  A fairer mark for cowboy humour would be difficult to find; but I had a personal interest and a determined character so the gang took a look at me and bided their time.