“If a girl’s got ideals it’s sometimes a mighty good thing the real guy don’t come along to disabuse them.  William ain’t never goin’ to get to the Double A.”

He buried the body in a gully, then he returned to the other men.

Upon their persons he found about nine hundred dollars in bills of small denomination.  It made a bulky package, and Sanderson stored it in his slicker.  Then he mounted Streak, turned the animal’s head toward the northeast, and rode into the glaring sunshine of the morning.

CHAPTER III

“Square” Deal Sanderson

Three days later, still traveling northeastward, Sanderson felt he must be close to the Double A. Various signs and conclusions were convincing.

In the first place, he had been a week on the trail, and estimating his pace conservatively, that time should bring him within easy riding distance of the place he had set out to seek.  There were so many miles to be covered in so many days, and Streak was a prince of steady travelers.

Besides, yesterday at dusk, Sanderson had passed through Las Vegas.  Careful inquiry in the latter town had brought forth the intelligence that the Double A was a hundred and seventy-five miles northeastward.

“Country’s short of cow-hands,” said Sanderson’s informer.  “If you’re needin’ work, an’ forty a month looks good to you, why, I’d admire to take you on.  I’m German, of the Flyin’ U, down the Cimarron a piece.”

“Me an’ work has disagreed,” grinned Sanderson; and he rode on, meditating humorously over the lie.

Work and Sanderson had never disagreed.  Indeed, Sanderson had always been convinced that work and he had agreed too well in the past.  Except for the few brief holidays that are the inevitable portion of the average puncher who is human enough to yearn for the relaxation of a trip to “town” once or twice a year, Sanderson and work had been inseparable for half a dozen years.

Sanderson’s application had earned him the reputation of being “reliable” and “trustworthy”—­two terms that, in the lexicon of the cow-country, were descriptive of virtues not at all common.  In Sanderson’s case they were deserved—­more, to them might have been added another, “straight.”

Sanderson’s trip northeastward had resulted partly from a desire to escape the monotony of old scenes and familiar faces; and partly because one day while in “town” he had listened attentively to a desert nomad, or “drifter,” who had told a tale of a country where water was to be the magic which would open the gates of fortune to the eager and serious-minded.

“That country’s goin’ to blossom!” declared the Drifter.  “An’ the guy which gets in on the ground floor is goin’ to make a clean-up!  They’s a range there—­the Double A—­which is right in the middle of things.  A guy named Bransford owns her—­an’ Bransford’s on his last legs.  He’s due to pass out pronto, or I’m a gopher!  He’s got a daughter there—­Mary—­which is a pippin, an’ no mistake!  But she’s sure got a job on her hands, if the ol’ man croaks.