“It seems that this feller was comin’ back from a round-up to his ranch the other day, and he saw the body of a steer, a little off to the right.  He rode over to look at it, and, lookin’ close, saw that the first brand had been burned over by another one.  Of course, he knows most of the brands in this section of the country, and after he studied it over a spell, he knew for sure that the first brand was ours.  Knew it by the little curlicue in the top corner of the O. The second brand had been put on kinder careless, in a hurry, as if the fellers that did it wanted to mosey along right quick.  Then, too, he could see that the steer had died from bein’ overdriven.”

Mr. Melton rose and paced the floor in growing anger as he pondered the situation.

Like all Westerners, he hated cattle rustlers only less than he hated a horse thief.  In years past he had had frequent battles with them when they had tried to raid his stock, and the dire punishment that he inflicted had made them willing of late to leave his ranch alone.  For several years he had had immunity and had been inclined to think that he would be henceforth free of that particular pest.  When Sandy had first begun to speak, he had thought there might be some mistake, and that the depletion of his stock might be traced to other causes.  The last incident, however, had furnished positive proof and it was evident that the miscreants were due for another lesson at his hands.

“Was there any clue on that steer, outside of the changing of the brand?” he demanded.

“No,” replied Sandy, “except just this.  Chip’s pal said that he thought the feller that did the branding was left-handed.  The edge that was deepest burned was on the other side from what it usually is when a right-hander does it.  Course, on account of the brands bein’ mixed up like, he couldn’t say for sure, but that’s the way it looked to him.”

“Do you know of anybody round these parts that is left-handed?” asked his employer.

“Can’t say as I do,” replied Sandy after a little meditation, “leastways, on any of the ranches around here.  I know some of the boys that is almost as good with their left hand as the right, but not what you could call p’intedly left-handed.  And anyway them fellers is as straight as a string, and I know they wouldn’t mix up with any dirty work like that.”

“Who had been riding herd on that north range before Buck saw the trail of the drove?” asked Mr. Melton abruptly.

“Let me see,” answered Sandy, cudgeling his memory.  “Why,” he said after a moment, “it was Pedro.  He had been up there three days before Buck relieved him.”

“Ah, Pedro,” echoed Mr. Melton.

There was a significance in his voice that caused Sandy to look up quickly, and, as he caught the look in his employer’s eyes, a sudden suspicion leaped into his own.

“What!” he exclaimed.  “Do you mean that Pedro was in cahoots with the gang?”