“You’ll be careful, won’t you, Will?” she said.

“Deal,” smilingly insisted Sanderson.

“Deal,” she repeated, giving him a look that made him blush.  Then she went into one of the other rooms, and Sanderson and Owen went outside.  At the corner of the stable Sanderson halted and faced Owen.

“You’ve got some explainin’ to do,” he said.  “How did you know Dale had a letter from Will Bransford to his father; an’ how did you know that Dale wanted me to write my name on that brand-registering blank so he could compare it with Will Bransford’s name on the letter?”

“Will Bransford told me he wrote such a letter; he showed me a letter from his dad which told how he had dropped Will’s letter and how Dale had picked it up.  Dale thought old Bransford hadn’t seen him pick up the letter—­but Bransford did see him.  And last night I was snooping around over at the Bar D and I overheard Dale and Silverthorn cooking up this deal.”

Sanderson grinned with relief.  “Well,” he said, “that name-signing deal sure had me considerable fussed up.”  He told Owen of his mental torture following the discovery of the letter that had disappeared from the dresser drawer.  “We’ve got to run together from now on,” he told Owen.  “I’ll be Bransford an’ you’ll be Bransford’s name.  Mebbe between us we’ll make a whole man.”

Over at the Bar D, Dale was scowling at Silverthorn.

“He ain’t Will Bransford,” Dale declared.  “He signed his name all O.K. an’ regular, just the same as it was on the letter.  But just the same he ain’t a Bransford.  There ain’t no Bransford ever had an eye in him like he’s got.  He’s a damned iceberg for nerve, an’ there’s more fight in him than there is in a bunch of wildcats—­if you get him started!”

“Just the same,” smiled Silverthorn, silkily, “we’ll get the Double A. Look here—­” And the two bent their heads together over Dale’s desk.

CHAPTER XII

DALE MOVES

A passionate hatred of Alva Dale was slowly gripping Sanderson.  It had been aroused on that first day of his meeting with the man, when he had seen Dale standing in front of the stable, bullying Mary Bransford and Peggy Nyland and her brother.  At that time, however, the emotion Sanderson felt had been merely dislike—­as Sanderson had always disliked men who attempted to bully others.

Sanderson’s hatred of Dale was beginning to dominate him; it was overwhelming all other emotions.  It dulled his sense of guilt for the part he was playing in deceiving Mary Bransford; it made him feel in a measure justified in continuing to deceive her.

For he divined that without his help Mary would lose the Double A.

Sanderson had always loved a fight, and the prospect of bringing defeat and confusion upon Dale was one that made his pulses leap with delight.

He got up on the morning following Dale’s visit, tingling with eagerness.  And yet there was no sign of emotion in his face when he sat with Mary Bransford at breakfast, and he did not even look at her when he left the house, mounted his horse, and rode up the gorge that split the butte at the southern end of the range.