And so they whispered while the moments swiftly passed.

It was early during the afternoon of the next day that Slone, hearing the clip-clop of unshod ponies, went outside to look.  One part of the lane he could see plainly, and into it stalked Joel Creech, leading the leanest and gauntest ponies Slone had ever seen.  A man as lean and gaunt as the ponies stalked behind.

The sight shocked Slone.  Joel Creech and his father!  Slone had no proof, because he had never seen the elder Creech, yet strangely he felt convinced of it.  And grim ideas began to flash into his mind.  Creech would hear who was accused of cutting the boat adrift.  What would he say?  If he believed, as all the villagers believed, then Bostil’s Ford would become an unhealthy place for Lin Slone.  Where were the great race-horses—­Blue Roan and Peg—­and the other thoroughbreds?  A pang shot through Slone.

“Oh, not lost—­not starved?” he muttered.  “That would be hell!”

Yet he believed just this had happened.  How strange he had never considered such an event as the return of Creech.

“I’d better look him up before he looks me,” said Slone.

It took but an instant to strap on his belt and gun.  Then Slone strode down his path, out into the lane toward Brackton’s.  Whatever before boded ill to Slone had been nothing to what menaced him now.  He would have a man to face—­a man whom repute called just, but stern.

Before Slone reached the vicinity of the store he saw riders come out to meet the Creech party.  It so happened there were more riders than usually frequented Brackton’s at that hour.  The old storekeeper came stumbling out and raised his hands.  The riders could be heard, loud-voiced and excited.  Slone drew nearer, and the nearer he got the swifter he strode.  Instinct told him that he was making the right move.  He would face this man whom he was accused of ruining.  The poor mustangs hung their heads dejectedly.

“Bags of bones,” some rider loudly said.

And then Slone drew dose to the excited group.  Brackton held the center; he was gesticulating; his thin voice rose piercingly.

“Creech!  Whar’s Peg an’ the Roan?  Gawd Almighty, man!  You ain’t meanin’ them cayuses thar are all you’ve got left of thet grand bunch of hosses?”

There was scarcely a sound.  All the riders were still.  Slone fastened his eyes on Creech.  He saw a gaunt, haggard face almost black with dust—­worn and sad—­with big eyes of terrible gloom.  He saw an unkempt, ragged form that had been wet and muddy, and was now dust-caked.

Creech stood silent in a dignity of despair that wrung Slone’s heart.  His silence was an answer.  It was Joel Creech who broke the suspense.

“Didn’t I tell you-all what’d happen?” he shrilled.  “Parched an’ starved!”

“Aw no!” chorused the riders.

Brackton shook all over.  Tears dimmed his eyes—­tears that he had no shame for.  “So help me Gawd—­I’m sorry!” was his broken exclamation.