“Like hell!” cried the bandmaster, indignantly, breaking in on the tune with his baton.  “I know my business!  Now, then, men,” he commanded, “‘I’ll Leave My Happy Home for You.’”

As Mrs. Bolland dragged Miss Cahill into view of the assembled troopers Ranson pulled his father-in-law into a far corner of the room.  He shook the written confession in his face.

“Now, will you kindly tell me what that means?” he demanded.  “What sort of a gallery play were you trying to make?”

Cahill shifted his sombrero guiltily.  “I was trying to get you out of the hole,” he stammered.  “I—­I thought you done it.”

“You thought I done it!”

“Sure.  I never thought nothing else.”

“Then why do you say here that you did it?”

“Oh, because,” stammered Cahill, miserably, “’cause of Mary, ’cause she wanted to marry you—­’cause you were going to marry her.”

“Well—­but—­what good were you going to do by shooting yourself?”

“Oh, then?” Cahill jerked back his head as though casting out an unpleasant memory.  “I thought you’d caught me, you, too—­between you!”

“Caught you!  Then you did—?”

“No, but I tried to.  I heard your plan, and I did follow you in the poncho and kerchief, meaning to hold up the stage first, and leave it to Crosby and Curtis to prove you did it.  But when I reached the coach you were there ahead of me, and I rode away and put in my time at the Indian village.  I never saw the paymaster’s cart, never heard of it till this morning.  But what with Mame missing the poncho out of our shop and the wound in my hand I guessed they’d all soon suspect me.  I saw you did.  So I thought I’d just confess to what I meant to do, even if I didn’t do it.”

Ranson surveyed his father-in-law with a delighted grin.  “How did you get that bullet-hole in your hand?” he asked.

Cahill laughed shamefacedly.  “I hate to tell you that,” he said.  “I got it just as I said I did.  My new gun went off while I was fooling with it, with my hand over the muzzle.  And me the best shot in the Territory!  But when I heard the paymaster claimed he shot the Red Rider through the palm I knew no one would believe me if I told the truth.  So I lied.”

Ranson glanced down at the written confession, and then tore it slowly into pieces.  “And you were sure I robbed the stage, and yet you believed that I’d use this?  What sort of a son-in-law do you think you’ve got?”

“You thought I robbed the stage, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you were going to stand for robbing it yourself, weren’t you?  Well, that’s the sort of son-in-law I’ve got!”

The two men held out their hands at the same instant.

Mary Cahill, her face glowing with pride and besieged with blushes, came toward them from the veranda.  She was laughing and radiant, but she turned her eyes on Ranson with a look of tender reproach.