Warde straightened.  “How in hell do you know?” he demanded.

“Banker Maison paid for them,” he said gently.

He related to Warde the incident of the visit of Sanderson and the banker, and the payment to Sanderson by Maison of the ninety thousand dollars.

At the conclusion of the recital Warde struck the desk with his fist.

“Damned if I didn’t think it was something like that!” he declared.  “But I wasn’t going to make a holler until I was sure.  But Sanderson knew, eh?  He knew all the time who had done the killing, and who had planned it.  Game, eh?  He was playing her a lone hand!”

The sheriff was silent for a moment, and then he spoke again, a glow of excitement in his eyes.  “But there’ll be hell to pay about this!  If Sanderson took ninety thousand dollars away from Maison, Maison was sure to tell Dale and Silverthorn about it—­for they’re as thick as three in a bed.  And none of them are the kind of men to stand for that kind of stuff from anybody—­not even from a man like Sanderson!”

“We’ve got to do something, Judge!  Give me warrants for the three of them—­Dale, Maison, and Silverthorn, and I’ll run them in before they get a chance to hand Sanderson anything!”

Judge Graney called the busy clerk and gave him brief instructions.  As the latter started toward his desk there was a sound at the door, and Barney Owen came in, breathing heavily.

Barney’s eyes lighted when they rested upon the sheriff, for he had not hoped to see him there.  He related to them what had happened at the Double A that day, and how Dale’s men had followed Sanderson and the others to “wipe them out” if they could.

“That settles it!” declared the sheriff.  He was outside in an instant, running here and there in search of men to form a posse.  He found them, scores of them; for in all communities where the law is represented, there are men who take pride in upholding it.

So it was with Okar.  When the law-loving citizens of the town were told what had occurred they began to gather around the sheriff from all directions—­all armed and eager.  And yet it was long after dusk before the cavalcade of men turned their horses’ heads toward the neck of the basin, to begin the long, hard ride over the plains to the spot where Sanderson, Williams, and the others had been ambushed by Dale’s men.

A rumor came to the men, however, just before they started, which made several of them look at one another—­for there had been those who had seen Ben Nyland riding down the street toward Maison’s bank in the dusk, his face set and grim and a wild light in his eyes.

“Maison has been guzzled—­he’s deader than a salt mackerel!” came the word, leaping from lip to lip.

Sheriff Warde grinned.  “Serves him right,” he declared; “that’s one less for us to hang!”

CHAPTER XXXI