At the court in Las Vegas he had discovered that Bransford had made a will, bequeathing the ranch to his son.  The document had been recorded only a few months before Bransford died, showing that he had at last forgiven the boy.

Sanderson had intended to take possession of the ranch, in an effort to forestall any scheme Dale might have, and while in Las Vegas he had applied to the court for permission to have the title transferred.  And then he had been told it would be necessary for him to file an affidavit and proof establishing his identity.

With Barney Owen looking on Sanderson was compelled to defer signing the affidavit, for Sanderson remembered the letter from young Bransford, bearing the younger Bransford’s signature.  The letter was still in the dresser drawer in his room, and he would have to have it beside him while he signed Bransford’s name to the affidavit in order to imitate Bransford’s handwriting successfully.  Therefore he asked permission to take the affidavit home.

Pocketing the paper, after receiving the necessary permission, Sanderson caught Owen looking at him with a smile.  He scowled at the little man.

“What’s eatin’ you?” he demanded.

“Curiosity,” said the other.  “Don’t tell me you’re too bashful to sign your name in public.”

They were mounting their horses when the little man spoke, and Sanderson grinned coldly at him.

“You’re a whole lot longer on talk than I like any of my friends to be,” he said.

“Then I’ll cut out gassing promiscuous,” grinned the latter.

Sanderson was troubled over the situation.  To successfully keep Dale from attacking his title to the ranch he must sign the affidavit and return it to the court.  He must imitate Will Bransford’s signature to prevent Mary Bransford from suspecting the deception—­for at any time she might decide to go to Las Vegas to look over the records there.

More, he must practice writing Bransford’s signature until he could imitate it without having to look at the original.

Determined to go to work at the deception instantly, Sanderson returned to the ranchhouse, slipped into his room and locked the door, opened the drawer and took out the package of letters.

The Bransford letter was missing!  Half a dozen times he thumbed the letters in the packages over before he would admit that the one for which he was seeking was not there.

He stood for a time looking at the package of letters, bitterly accusing himself.  It was his own fault if the whole structure of deception tumbled about his ears, for he should have taken the letter when he had had an opportunity.

Mary Bransford had it, of course.  The other letters, he supposed, she cared less for than the one written by her brother.

For the twentieth time since his arrival at the ranch, Sanderson had an impulse to ride away and leave Mary Bransford to fight the thing out herself.  But, as before, he fought down the impulse.