In a big man the suggestion of effeminacy would have been disgusting, and Sanderson’s first action as owner of the ranch would have been to discharge such a man instantly.  But in Sanderson’s heart had come a spirit of tolerance toward the little man, for he felt that the effeminacy had resulted from his afflictions.

He was a querulous semi-invalid, trying bravely to imitate his vigorous and healthy friends.

“Thinking it over?” he queried, looking down at Sanderson.

“Thinkin’ what over?”

“Well, just things,” grinned the little man.  “For one thing, I suppose you are trying to decide why you didn’t sign your name—­over in Las Vegas.”

Sanderson grinned mildly, but did not answer.  He felt more at ease now, and the little man’s impertinences did not bother him so much as formerly.  He looked up, however, startled, when Owen said slowly: 

“Do you want me to tell you why you didn’t sign Will Bransford’s name to the affidavit?”

Sanderson’s eyes did not waver as they met Owen’s.

“Tell me,” he said evenly.

“Because you are not Will Bransford,” said the little man.

Sanderson did not move; nor did he remove his gaze from the face of the little man.  He was not conscious of any emotion whatever.  For now that he had determined to stay at the Double A no matter what happened, discovery did not alarm him.  He grinned at the little man, deliberately, with a taunting smile that the other could not fail to understand.

“You’re a wise guy, eh?” he said.  “Well, spring it.  I’m anxious to know how you got next to me.”

“You ain’t sore, then?”

“Not, none.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t be,” eagerly said the little man, “for I don’t want you to hit the breeze just now.  I know you are not Will Bransford because I know Bransford intimately.  I was his chum for several years.  He could drink as much as I. He was lazy and shiftless, but I liked him.  We were together in Tucson—­and in other places in Arizona.  Texas, too.  We never amounted to much.  Do you need to know any more?  I can tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“More,” grinned the other man, “about yourself.  You are Sanderson—­Deal Sanderson—­nicknamed Square Deal Sanderson.  I saw you one day in Tombstone; you were pointed out to me, and the minute I laid my eyes on you the day Dale tried to hang Nyland, I knew you.”

Sanderson smiled.  “Why didn’t you tell Mary?”

The little man’s face grew grave.  “Because I didn’t want to queer your game.  You saved Nyland—­an innocent man.  Knowing your reputation for fairness, I was convinced that you didn’t come here to deceive anybody.”

“But I did deceive somebody,” said Sanderson.  “Not you, accordin’ to what you’ve been tellin’ me, but Mary Bransford.  She thinks I am her brother, an’ I’ve let her go on thinkin’ it.”

“Why?” asked the little man.