Bob sidled up to the bar where Kennedy was impassively waiting.  “Warmer out,” he advanced.

Mick made no comment.  “Something?” he suggested.

Bob’s colorless eyes blinked involuntarily.  “Yes, a bit of rye.”

Mick poured a very small drink into a whiskey glass, set it with another of water before the customer, on a big card tacked upon the wall added a fresh line to those already succeeding the other’s name, and leaned his elbows once more upon the bar.

Upon the floor of his mouth Bob Hoyt laid a foundation of water, over this sent down the fiery liquor with a gulp, and followed the retreat with the last of the water, unconsciously making a wry face.

Kennedy whisked the empty glasses through the doubtful contents of a convenient pail, and set them dripping upon a perforated shelf.  “Found the horses yet?” he queried, in an undertone.

Bob shifted uncomfortably and searched for a place for his hands, but finding none he let them hang awkwardly over the rail of the bar.

“No, not even a trail.”

“Looked, have you?” The single searchlight turned unwinkingly upon the other’s face.

“Yes, I’ve been out all day.  Made a circle of the places within forty miles—­Russel’s of the Circle R, Stetson’s of the ‘XI,’ Frazier’s, Rankin’s—­none of them have seen a sign of a stray.”

“That settles it, then.  Those horses were stolen.”  The red face with its bristle of buff and gray came closer.  “I didn’t think they’d strayed.  The two best horses on a ranch don’t wander off by chance; if they’d been broncos it might have been different.  It’s the same thing as three years ago; pretty nearly the same date too—­early in January it was, you remember!”

Bob’s long head nodded confirmation.  “Yes.  We thought then they’d come around all right in the next round up, but they didn’t, and never have.”

Kennedy stepped back, spread his hands palm down upon the bar, leaned his full weight upon them, and gazed meditatively at the other occupants of the room.  A question was in his mind.  Should he take these men into his confidence and trust to their well-known method of dealing with rustlers—­a method very effective when successful in catching the offender, but infinitely deficient in finesse—­or depend wholly upon his own ingenuity?  He decided that in this instance the latter offered little hope.  His province was in dealing with people at close range.

“Boys,”—­his voice was normal, but not a man in the room failed to give attention,—­“boys, line up!  It’s on the house.”

Promptly the card games ceased.  In one, the pot lay as it was, its ownership undecided, in the centre of the table.  The loungers’ feet dropped to the floor.  An inebriate, half dozing in the corner, awoke.  Well they knew it was for no small reason that Mick interrupted their diversions.  Up they came—­Grover of the far-away “XXX” ranch, who had been here for two days now, and had