“Miss Cahill was good enough to bring up my breakfast this morning,” he said.  “Has she told you of what I said to her?”

Cahill shook his head.  “No, I haven’t seen her.  We’ve been taking account of stock all morning.”

“Then—­then you’ve heard nothing from her about me?” said Ranson.

The post trader raised his head in surprise.  “No.  Captain Carr spoke to me about your arrest, and then said you wanted to see me first about something private.”  The post trader fixed Ranson with his keen, unwavering eyes.  “What might that be?” he asked.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” stammered Ranson; “I’ll wait until Miss Cahill tells you.”

“Any complaint about the food?” inquired the post trader.

Ranson laughed nervously.  “No, it’s not that,” he said.  He rose, and, to protect what Miss Cahill evidently wished to remain a secret, changed the subject.  “You see you’ve lived in these parts so long, Mr. Cahill,” he explained, “and you know so many people, I thought maybe you could put me on the track or give me some hint as to which of that Kiowa gang really did rob the paymaster.”  Ranson was pulling the cork from the whiskey bottle, and when he asked the question Cahill pushed his glass from him and shook his head.  Ranson looked up interrogatively and smiled.  “You mean you think I did it myself?” he asked.

“I didn’t understand from Captain Carr,” the post trader began in heavy tones, “that it’s my opinion you’re after.  He said I might be wanted to testify who was present last night in my store.”

“Certainly, that’s all we want,” Ranson answered, genially.  “I only thought you might give me a friendly pointer or two on the outside.  And, of course, if it’s your opinion I did the deed we certainly don’t want your opinion.  But that needn’t prevent your taking a drink with me, need it?  Don’t be afraid.  I’m not trying to corrupt you.  And I’m not trying to poison a witness for the other fellows, either.  Help yourself.”

Cahill stretched out his left hand.  His right remained hidden in the side pocket of his coat.  “What’s the matter with your right hand?” Ranson asked.  “Are you holding a gun on me?  Really, Mr. Cahill, you’re not taking any chances, are you?” Ranson gazed about the room as though seeking an appreciative audience.  “He’s such an important witness,” he cried, delightedly, “that first he’s afraid I’ll poison him and he won’t drink with me, and now he covers me with a gun.”

Reluctantly, Cahill drew out his hand.  “I was putting the bridle on my pony last night,” he said.  “He bit me.”

Ranson exclaimed sympathetically, “Oh, that’s too bad,” he said.  “Well, you know you want to be careful.  A horse’s teeth really are poisonous.”  He examined his own hands complacently.  “Now, if I had a bandage like that on my right hand they would hang me sure, no matter whether it was a bite, or a burn, or a bullet.”

Cahill raised the glass to his lips and sipped the whiskey critically.  “Why?” he asked.