“Got any plan, Kennedy?” he queried.  “Whoever’s done you has got a good start by this time; but if we’re going to do anything, there’s no use in giving him longer.  How about it?”

Mick’s single eye shifted as before, and went from face to face.  “No, I haven’t; but I’ve got an idea.”  A pause.  “How many of you boys remembers Tom Blair?” he digressed.

“I do,” said Grover.

“Same here.”  It was Gilbert of the Lost Range who spoke.

“I’ve heard of him,” commented one of the cowboys.

“I guess we all have,” added another.

Again Mick’s eye, like a flashlight, passed from man to man.

“Well,” he announced, “I may be wrong, but I’ve got reason to believe it was Tom Blair who did the job last night, and that he’s somewhere this side the river right now.”

For a moment there was silence, while the idea took root.

“I supposed he was dead long ago,” remarked Stetson at last.

“So did I, until a month ago—­until the last time I was in town stocking up.  I met a fellow there then from the country west of the river, and it all came out.  Blair’s been stampin’ that range for a year, and they’re suspicious of him.  He disappears every now and then, and they think he keeps in with a gang of rustlers who have their headquarters over in the Johnson’s Hole country in Wyoming.  The fellow said he kept up appearances by claiming he owned a ranch on this side—­the Big B. That’s how we came to speak of him.”

“Queer,” commented Stetson, “that if it’s Blair, he hasn’t been around before.  It’s been ten years now since he disappeared, hasn’t it?”

“More than that,” corrected Mick.  “That’s another reason I believe it’s him; that, and the fact that I didn’t do nothin’ the last time I was held up.  It must be one lone rustler who’s operating or there’d be more’n a couple of hosses missing.  Then it must be some feller that knows the Big B, and has a particular grudge against it, or why would they have passed the Broken Kettle or the Lone Buffalo on the west?  Morris has a whole herd, and his main hoss sheds are in an old creek-bed a mile away from the ranch-house.  I tell you it’s some feller who knows this country and knows me.”

“I believe you’re right about him being this side of the river,” broke in Thompson.  “When I was over after the mail two days ago there was water running on the ice; and it’s been warmer since.  It must be wide open in spots now.  A man who knows the crossings might make it afoot, but he couldn’t take a hoss over.”

Mick’s lone eye burned more ominously than before.  “Of course he can’t.  He’s run into a trap, and all we’ve got to do is to make a spread and round him up.  I’ll bet a hundred to one we find him somewhere this side, waiting for a freeze.”  Again the half-emptied bottle came from the shelf and passed to the end of the line.  “Have another whiskey on me, boys.”

They silently drank.  Then grim Stetson suggested that they drink again—­“to our success”; and cowboy Buck, not to be outdone, proposed another toast—­“to the necktie party—­after.”  The big bottle, empty now, dinned on the surface of the bar.