Sanderson did not answer.  The little man climbed down from the fence and moved close to him, talking earnestly, and at last Sanderson grinned down at him.

“I’m doing it,” he said.  “I’ll stay.  I reckon I was figurin’ on it all the time.”

CHAPTER X

PLAIN TALK

Barney Owen had told Sanderson of his hatred for Alva Dale, but he had not told Sanderson many other things.  He had not told the true story of how he came to be employed at the Double A—­how Mary had come upon him one day at a shallow crossing of the river, far down in the basin.

Owen was flat on his stomach at the edge of the water, scooping it up with eager handfuls to quench a thirst that had endured for days.  He had been so weak that he could not stand when she found him, and in some way she got him on his horse and brought him to the ranchhouse, there to nurse him until he recovered his strength.

It had been while she was caring for him that she had told him about her fear of Dale, and thereafter—­as soon as he was able to ride again—­Owen took it upon himself to watch Dale.

In spite of his exceeding slenderness, Owen seemed to possess the endurance and stamina of a larger and more physically perfect man.  For though he was always seen about the ranchhouse during the day—­helping at odd jobs and appearing to be busy nearly all the time—­each succeeding night found him stealthily mounting his horse to ride to the Bar D, there to watch Dale’s movements.

He had not been at the Bar D since the night before the day on which he had left with Sanderson to go to Las Vegas, but on the second night following his return—­soon after dark—­he went to the stable, threw saddle and bridle on his horse, and vanished into the shadows of the basin.

Later, moving carefully, he appeared at the edge of a tree clump near the Bar D corral.  He saw a light in one of the windows of the house—­Dale’s office—­and he left his horse in the shadows and stole forward.  There were two men in the office with Dale.  Owen saw them and heard their voices as he crept to a point under the window in the dense blackness of the night.

The men Dale had sent to Tucson had not required the full two weeks for the trip; they had made it in ten days, and their faces, as they sat before Dale in the office, showed the effects of their haste.  Yet they grinned at Dale as they talked, glowing with pride over their achievement, but the word they brought to Dale did not please him, and he sat glaring at them until they finished.

“Gary Miller ain’t been heard of for a month, eh?” he said.  “You say you heard he started this way?  Then where in hell is he?”

Neither of the men could answer that question and Dale dismissed them.  Then he walked to a door, opened it, and called to someone in another room.  Dave Silverthorn entered the office, and for more than an hour the two talked, their conversation being punctuated with futile queries and profanity.