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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 70979 ***</div>


<section>
<h1>The Riddle of the Rangeland</h1>

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  <img src='images/illus-fpc.jpg' alt='frontispiece' style='width:100%'>
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</section>

<hr class="vsp2 x-ebookmaker-drop">

<section class='chapter'>
<h2 id='chI' title='CHAPTER I'>
  <span style='font-size:1.3em;'>THE RIDDLE OF THE RANGELAND</span><br>
  <span style='font-size:1em;'>By Forbes Parkhill</span><br><br>
  <span style='font-size:1.2em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CHAPTER I</span>
</h2>

<p style='font-size:0.9em;margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%;
text-indent:0;margin-bottom:1em; font-style:italic;'>
The modern West still keeps many of the old-time thrills, as you
who read this captivating novelette of the Wyoming mountains
will discover. Mr. Parkhill himself lives in the West; “The
Ken-Caryl Case” and other stories have already won him fame as
an excellent writing-man.</p>

<p>Sheriff Lafe Ogden, long-barreled blue revolver in his hand,
knocked lightly on the rough pine door of the Red Rock ranger
station. Then he stepped back softly and pressed himself close
to the log-and-plaster wall beside his deputy, Seth Markey, and
young Otis Carr.</p>

<p>There was no answer from within. The Sheriff raised his
shaggy brows, pursed his lips and whistled softly. With a jerk
of his head in the direction of the others, he stepped forward
again. Suddenly he flung the door wide.</p>

<p>“Good God!” The exclamation burst from his lips, and checked
the sudden advance of the two pushing forward on his heels.</p>

<p>“It’s Joe Fyffe himself!” He nodded toward the crumpled
figure which lay face downward on the floor.</p>

<p>“Dead?” asked Otis Carr in a strange, strained voice as he
squeezed his huge bulk through the door. He wondered why he had
experienced no great shock at the gruesome discovery. For Joe
Fyffe, forest ranger, silent, odd and retiring, had been his
friend.</p>

<p>The Sheriff dropped to one knee. He placed a hand on the
ranger’s wrist.</p>

<p>“Been dead quite a spell,” he announced without looking
up.</p>

<p>“Blood shows that,” the deputy volunteered.</p>

<p>“Looky here how it’s dried round the edges, on the floor
underneath his arms there. Two, three hours, I reckon.”</p>

<p>Otis Carr bent awkwardly over the huddled body.</p>

<p>“Shot, I s’pose,” he speculated, his tanned face, somehow
attractive despite its homeliness, showing a trace of awe and
concern. Most of his life had been spent in the cattle country
east of Jackson’s Hole; yet the acts of violence which it had
been his lot to witness had failed to render him callous in the
presence of death.</p>

<p>Sheriff Ogden turned the ranger’s stiffening body on one
side.</p>

<p>“That’s where he bled from,” he said shortly, pointing with
the muzzle of his revolver to a tiny, stained hole in the
ranger’s shirt, under the right shoulder. “But that’s what done
the work,” he added, indicating a similar hole in the back, just
above the ranger’s belt.</p>

<p>“It’s a cinch it wasn’t any accident,” Otis drawled, glancing
curiously about the interior of the ranger cabin. “I tell you,
somebody plugged him.”</p>

<p>“I don’t see any gun,” observed the Sheriff, rising, stepping
over the body and walking to the door of the only other
room.</p>

<p>“He couldn’t ’a’ had a chance. Nasty job, this!”</p>

<p>Otis followed him to the room which served as a sleeping
chamber and office. Ogden removed a rifle from two wooden pegs
in the log wall above the desk, examined it carefully, and shook
his head. His scrutiny of a holstered revolver which swung by a
cartridge belt from a nail in the wall was likewise barren of
results.</p>

<p>“Neither one’s been fired,” he asserted, frowning and turning
to the maps and papers on the rude pine desk. “He never had a
chance to shoot back. You knew him pretty well, didn’t you,
Otis? D’you know whether he had any other guns?”</p>

<p>Otis shook his head.</p>

<p>“Don’t think he did,” he replied uneasily, casting his eye
about the room. “He hardly ever packed the revolver. Sometimes
he carried the rifle in his saddle scabbard, but it was on the
chance of seeing a cat or something, and not for protection
from—well, you know. He never seemed to worry about the threats
of the boys that the Gov’ment couldn’t send in any damned ranger
to collect grazing-fees for using the open range.”</p>

<p>The Sheriff turned from the desk to a workbench containing a
shallow tank, wooden racks and a row of bottles.</p>

<p>“I know,” he remarked gravely. “But between you and me, it
aint like any of the boys to shoot him down like this. What’s
this junk?”</p>

<p>“Dark-room equipment,” Otis answered, fingering a developing
tray. “Joe was a nut on wild-animal photography, you know. Got
some of the best animal pictures I’ve ever seen. Did his own
finishing here at night. See that blanket rolled up over the
window? He’d let that down, and have a first-class
dark-room.”</p>

<p>“That’s right,” the Sheriff affirmed. “I remember now. He was
the feller that bragged he was the only man that ever got a
close-up picture of a wild mountain sheep, wasn’t he?”</p>

<p>“I wouldn’t say he bragged about it. But it was something
worth boasting about, anyway.”</p>

<p>Sheriff Ogden, his barren search of the office and bedroom
completed, led the way back to the room where the body lay.</p>

<p>“Lucky we run into you, Otis,” he remarked as he began a
hurried search of its interior. “When I seen you ridin’ down the
Buffalo Forks road, I says to Seth, here: ‘There’s Otis Carr,
who knows Joe Fyffe right well—maybe better’n anyone else in
these parts. We’ll ask him to go along.’</p>

<p>“We didn’t know what had happened, then. Just knew somethin’
funny was pulled off here at the ranger station. Forest
supervisor in Jackson called me before daylight, an’ said he’d
just got a flash on his phone, an’ that some one was callin’ for
help. Operator told him the call was from Red Rock ranger
station.</p>

<p>“He’d ’a’ come along, only for a wrenched leg. Between you
and me, he’s a pretty decent feller, that supervisor, even if he
is tryin’ to collect grazin’-fees for the Gov’ment. I says to
Seth here: ‘Lucky thing these here ranger stations is connected
with telephones for fire-calls. Man could have an accident an’
lay there for a week if it wasn’t for that wire.’ I had a hunch
it might be somethin’ more than an accident, ’count of hearin’
more or less how the boys been shootin’ off their mouths. You
been over the hill to Dubois, I s’pose?”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Otis, who had stepped to the pine table to retrieve the
telephone, which was hanging close to the floor, turned quickly
after restoring the instrument to its accustomed place and shot
an odd, questioning glance at the Sheriff, who was stooping over
the stove. Then he peered uncertainly at the deputy, who was
kneeling by the outer door.</p>

<p>“N-o-o,” he drawled, turning back to the table, nervous
fingers clumsily fingering the telephone. “Guess the old man
told you them rustlers been busy again, working over some of the
Footstool calves. Jess Bledsoe says they been bothering around
some of the Flying A stock, too. Well, I rode over to the cabin
of Gus Bernat, the French trapper, last night, figuring I might
get a line on the fellow who’s so free with the running-iron.
Had a hunch he might be working the range down below Two-Gwo-Tee
pass, but I couldn’t see a thing—”</p>

<p>Deputy Seth Markey, seemingly impatient that the others
should waste their time on such casual remarks with the mystery
of the Fyffe killing confronting them, arose with an
exclamation.</p>

<p>“Looky here, boss,” he cried to the Sheriff, directing his
attention to two tiny brown spots near the doorsill. “See them
blood-drops? That means Fyffe was outside when he was shot, and
run in here afterward. Let’s take a look outside the cabin.”</p>

<p>Ogden abandoned his examination of the stove, and the pair of
worn, hobnailed Canadian pack boots hanging from the log ceiling
above it by their leather laces, and joined his deputy at the
door.</p>

<p>“Sure ’nough,” he observed as he led the way outside the
cabin, carefully scrutinizing the ground about the doorway.
“Here’s another. We’ll just back-track this trail, an’ see what
we can find.”</p>

<p>With difficulty they followed the thin trail of blood over
the coarse gravel surface and pine-needle carpet of the pasture
which surrounded the ranger cabin. It led through the open gate
in the barbed-wire fence which inclosed the pasture. They lost
it in the near-by creek bottom. In vain did they circle the spot
where the last bloodstain appeared.</p>

<p>Some fifty yards away they came upon the cold ashes of a tiny
wood fire. Sheriff Ogden pressed his hand among the charred
fragments.</p>

<p>“From the feel of her, she might be a week old,” he announced
sagely. “The ashes aint flaky, but black, showin’ that the fire
didn’t burn out, but was doused with water from the crick.”</p>

<p>“But why,” asked Otis curiously, “would anyone want to build
a fire so near the ranger station? I tell you it couldn’t be to
cook a meal, because anyone could have dropped in and eaten with
Fyffe.”</p>

<p>“Maybe the ranger built it hisself,” suggested the Sheriff.
“What few tracks show in this coarse gravel is cow-tracks, and
that don’t tell us nothin’. Can’t see any signs of a fight here.
Let’s go back to the cabin.”</p>

<p>“He must have run in here after he was shot,” speculated Otis
upon reentering the shack, “and grabbed for the phone. Like as
not he yelled for help once or twice, and then dropped to the
floor. Or maybe he knocked the phone off the table, and the
supervisor heard him calling for help after he lay on the
floor.”</p>

<p>“He knocked that camera off the table too,” the deputy
volunteered. “I found it on the floor while you two was in the
other room, and put it back on the table.”</p>

<p>“What’s this?” asked Otis, stooping and retrieving a stub of
a pencil from the floor a few feet from the body. “I wonder if
this means anything?”</p>

<p>The Sheriff glanced at it and grunted.</p>

<p>“Probably dropped out of his pocket when he fell. Or maybe he
knocked it off the table with the phone and the camera.”</p>

<p>The deputy suddenly dropped to his knees beside the body.</p>

<p>“Looky here!” he cried, eagerness and excitement showing in
his face as he looked up at them. He was pointing with a tanned
and stubby finger at a straggling and meaningless black line
upon the floor planking. One end trailed out to nothingness near
where Otis had found the pencil. The other end of the line was
covered with the splotch of blood. “Maybe he wrote somethin’
before he died!”</p>

<p>Sheriff Ogden seized a dish towel from a nail behind the
stove. He moistened it with a dipperful of water from the bucket
in the corner. Then he too dropped to his knees by Fyffe’s body
and commenced to scrub at the bloodstained floor. Otis bent
eagerly over his shoulder.</p>

<p>“There she is!” burst from the Sheriff’s lips as a faint
scrawl appeared beneath his hands. He scrubbed vigorously a
moment longer. All three peered at the pine plank as he
desisted.</p>

<p>Five words were scrawled on the floor. Slowly Sheriff Ogden
read them aloud—a damning message from the dead:</p>

<p>“‘<i>Otis Carr shot me because—</i>’”</p>

</section>

<section class='chapter'>

<h2 id='chII' title='CHAPTER II'>
  <span style='font-size:1.2em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CHAPTER II</span>
</h2>

<p>“Simple” Sample, cow-hand employed by Sterling Carr, owner of
the Footstool outfit, was initiating Mariel Lancaster, visitor
from Pennsylvania, into the mysteries of saddling a horse.</p>

<p>“There aint no need for you-all to saddle a horse, long as
you’re around the ranch, here, ma’am,” he protested as he led a
“plumb gentle” sorrel outside the Footstool corral. “They’s most
always some of the boys about, that’s willin’ to he’p you if you
say the word.”</p>

<p>Mariel, who had equipped herself with a quirt belonging to
Margaret Carr, her school chum who had induced her to pay a
visit to the Footstool ranch in Wyoming, frowned slightly and
attempted to slap her boot, as if she had held a riding-crop.
The quirt, however, was too limber, and refused to slap.</p>

<p>“I understand, but that’s just why I want to learn,” she
insisted with some little spirit. “What if I’d be out somewhere
alone, and have to saddle—”</p>

<p>“I bet you-all wont be ridin’ around alone, ma’am—not’s long
as young Mr. Otis is here,” remarked Simple with assurance. He
hadn’t failed to use his eyes during the week that Mariel had
been a guest of the ranch, and his years gave him certain
privileges which the other “boys” lacked.</p>

<p>Mariel flushed slightly, and then laughed.</p>

<p>“But he isn’t here today,” she challenged, as if seeking to
elicit further information concerning Otis.</p>

<p>“No, ma’am,” Simple replied, his eyes narrowing as he looked
away southward toward the Gros Ventre range, “I reckon he’s out
there somewheres lookin’ over the range. First thing, ma’am,
don’t go swishin’ that quirt around these broomtails. They’re
liable to think yore in earnest. Old Dynamite, here, he’s plumb
peace-lovin’ an’ reasonable, but even he’s got some right funny
idees about quirts.</p>

<p>“Step up an’ gentle him some, ma’am, so he’ll know yore
intentions is honorable. Not from that end, ma’am, or he may
kick yore slats out—beg pardon, ma’am, I mean he mayn’t see it
the right way. Go at him from the head end. That’s right.</p>

<p>“Naow fold yore saddle-blanket—so. Keep on the nigh side, an’
ease it over his spine. Slide it back with the grain of the
hair. Fine. I bet that saddle’s a purty big heft for you-all,
aint it, ma’am? Naow reach under his bel—I mean, reach under him
an’ grab that cinch. Run the latigo through the ring—like this.
Naow pull—hard.”</p>

<p>Mariel turned to her instructor, sorely puzzled.</p>

<p>“Very well. But what do you do when he swells all up, like
this?”</p>

<p>“Kick him in the slats, ma’am. Kick him in the slats.
Leastways, that’s what I’d do, seein’ as how you-all ast me. But
I guess you-all cain’t do nothin’ but talk to him. No, that wont
do, neither, cause a lady cain’t talk the language that ol’
reprobate understands. Reckon you’ll have to wait till he gits
out o’ breath. Naow—pull quick, ma’am. Good! Tie it jest like
you’d tie a man’s necktie. You aint never tied a man’s necktie?
It’s like this-hyere.”</p>

<p>Mariel, panting but triumphant, stood back and admired her
handiwork.</p>

<p>“There!” she cried exultantly. “Sometime I’ll get you to
teach me how to put those—er—trademarks on the livestock. They
call this the Footstool ranch because its trademark looks like a
footstool, don’t they?”</p>

<p>“Yes’m. Only they don’t exactly call it a trademark. That
horizontal line is the top of the footstool, and them two lines
that slants away underneath, they’re the laigs.”</p>

<p>“You have such odd names for your—er—brands. Yesterday I
heard Mr. Carr talking about the Lazy Y. What’s that like?”</p>

<p>“Jest the letter V, ma’am, leanin’ over to one side, like it
was too lazy to stand up straight. That’s old man Yarmouth’s
brand.”</p>

<p>“And the Flying A. That’s Mr. Bledsoe’s mark, isn’t it?”</p>

<p>“Yes’m. The bar of the letter A sticks out on each side, like
wings. An’ because it looks like the letter A with wings, they
calls it the Flying A. I notice young Jess Bledsoe’s been over
quite frequent of late.”</p>

<p>Mariel colored, but smiled. “I think he’s so typically
Western. He seems to be made for these picturesque cowboy
costumes.”</p>

<p>“I reckon he never misses a chance to make his spurs jingle,
ma’am,” Simple remarked, tugging at the tobacco-tag dangling
from his vest pocket. “He wears the biggest hat and the hairiest
chaps between the Wind River reservation and the Tetons. He
likes to tell how he captured Ed Gunn, the outlaw, after Ed had
shot the gun out of Jess’ hand, incidentally shootin’ Jess’
little finger off. But don’t get him wrong, ma’am—I bet he can
set on the hurricane deck of any bronc in these parts, an’ he
can shoot the eye out of a needle. Trouble is, he knows it. But
I reckon that’ll wear off in time.”</p>

<p>“I’ve heard already how Mr. Bledsoe lost his little finger,”
said Mariel soberly. “He must be very daring. He tells me that
the cattle-raisers are bothered by thieves who steal their
stock. I should think they’d do something about it.”</p>

<p>“They will, ma’am—when they catch ’em. Rustlin’ aint the
healthiest occupation in the world. Reckon it’s the Radley boys,
over in the Hole. That’s Jackson’s Hole proper, ma’am, over to
the west there. Mebbe you’ve heard about Jackson’s Hole, ma’am,
as a hangout for cattle thieves an’ such. Most folks think they
hide in the Hole. But they don’t. Anybody can get into Jackson’s
Hole. But when anyone comes, lookin’ for calves that’s been
monkeyed with with a runnin’-iron, the boys jest draws back into
the Tetons, where you cain’t find ’em in a thousand years.</p>

<p>“Them’s the Tetons over there, ma’am—them snaggle-toothed
mountains that rise right up like a wall. The old French
trappers named ’em, because they’re like a breastworks. Behind
that big one, the Grand Teton, are half a dozen trails leadin’
out to Idaho. Many a posse’s quit cold, ma’am, when they come to
the Tetons.”</p>

<p>“I understand. But isn’t it hard to steal a cow and drive her
so many miles without being seen by some one?”</p>

<p>“They don’t have to drive ’em, ma’am—not on the open range.
Jest slap a brand on a maverick, and leave him. Then come
round-up time, when they’re sorted out, the man with that
p’ticler brand gets his calf without bein’ asked no questions.
No one hereabouts would think o’ keepin’ a calf with some one
else’s brand on him.</p>

<p>“But even if he does start to drive a critter to his home
range, who’s goin’ to interfere with a man drivin’ home a stray
with his own brand on him? On the open range there aint no
restrictions—’cept what the Gov’ment’s made right recently. The
Gov’ment up an’ tells the cow-man that the open range aint open
any more—that the Gov’ment owns it, an’ is goin’ to collect a
grazin’-fee for every head of cattle on it.</p>

<p>“I never hearn tell of sech a thing, ma’am. Mebbe you don’t
understand it, but it makes every cow-man boil. Ever since there
was a cow in this country, the cow-men have used the open range
without payin’ for it. How come the Gov’ment makes ’em pay now?
Here’s scads of grazin’ land goin’ to waste. But the Gov’ment’s
goin’ to have a real job on its hands, collectin’ grazin’-fees
from these ranchers.”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Mariel failed to comprehend half of the old cow-hand’s
tirade, and her expression showed it.</p>

<p>“But do the ranchers think they can oppose the Government
successfully?”</p>

<p>“They can make it so hot that no ranger’ll dare come in here
an’ try to collect grazin’-fees. It wouldn’t surprise me a mite,
ma’am, if Ranger Fyffe, up at Red Rock ranger station, would up
an’ decide to leave the country right sudden. In fact, the boys
was talkin’ last night about issuin’ him a formal
invitation.”</p>

<p>“What if he refused to go?”</p>

<p>“Well, ma’am, the boys have a right persuadin’ way about ’em,
I bet he’d go. If he didn’t—well, he might stay, permanent.”</p>

<p>Horror was growing in Mariel’s eyes as she listened to old
Simple’s explanation.</p>

<p>“You mean to say they’d—they’d kill him?”</p>

<p>“Well, now, ma’am, a wise man can take a hint. There wont be
any need for a killin’. For instance, say, one of the boys is
picked to deliver a cordial invite to this ranger to leave the
country—or to quit his job an’ stay here like an honest citizen,
for, y’understand, miss, no one’s got anything personal against
this ranger. If he got kilt, it would be a matter of principle,
so to speak, with no hard feelin’s toward him.</p>

<p>“Well, s’posin’ he gets uppity an’ balks. What then? Why,
mebbe some one shoots up his place. Then, if he don’t take the
hint, mebbe they start shootin’ in earnest. Nobody believes in
unnecessary killin’, ma’am, ’cept some real gunmen an’ killers.
But it all depends on the feller that delivers the invite, an’
how the ranger’d take it. Naow, if the messenger’d get lit up a
mite, an’ mebbe think he was a woodtick an’ it was his night to
tick, an’ if the ranger got nasty, why, anything might
happen.”</p>

<p>Mariel shuddered and said: “I think it’s a cowardly thing to
do.”</p>

<p>“Mebbe so, ma’am, mebbe so,” grinned the old cow-hand,
shrugging. “I reckon you aint the only one thinks so, either.
The boys drawed lots to pick who was to run the ranger off’m the
range. The one they picked wasn’t there. When they told him
about it, that was just what he said. He give ’em h⸺. I mean,
ma’am, he said it didn’t look right to him. But I reckon he was
just scared out, ma’am. Left in a huff, he did, sayin’ he was
goin’ over to the cabin of Gus Bernat, the trapper, to look for
rustlers. Said the Gov’ment had a right to collect grazin’-fees
an’ to limit the range, an’ that it was all for the cowman’s
good in the long run. Next thing, I bet he’ll be standin’ up for
the nester an’ his damn bob wire—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.
Bobbed wire is goin’ to strangle the cow-man, if he don’t look
aout.”</p>

<p>Mariel glanced at the tiny watch strapped to her wrist.
Seemingly she was deeply interested in Simple’s discourse on the
cow-men’s feud with the rangers, rustlers, nesters and barbed
wire. But despite this apparent interest, she displayed
evidences of impatience.</p>

<p>“It’s nearly nine o’clock,” she announced, almost petulantly.
“I wonder if—”</p>

<p>“I shouldn’t wonder, ma’am,” Simple interrupted, grinning,
“if that’s him comin’ naow.”</p>

<p>A dashing figure on a white-stockinged chestnut had rounded
the corner of the bunkhouse, and was approaching the corral at a
trot. With almost a single motion he halted before them, leaped
from the saddle and stood, hat in hand and bridle looped over
his arm, smiling and bowing slightly before Mariel. She returned
the smile.</p>

<p>“This is indeed a surprise, Mr. Bledsoe,” she told him
brightly, smoothing a fold in her riding habit. Simple
chuckled.</p>

<p>“Just thought I’d drop over to see if the Footstool’s got any
line on those rustlers,” Bledsoe began pleasantly. “Didn’t think
I’d be so fortunate as to find you, Miss Lancaster.” Then,
turning to Simple: “H’lo, Simp. Where’s Otis?”</p>

<p>“Howdy, Jess,” the cow-hand responded. “Reckon Otis is out
some’ers down Gros Ventre way.”</p>

<p>“Wonder if he’s heard about the trouble up at the ranger
cabin?” Bledsoe asked. “Some of the boys says the Sheriff
got a hurry-up call from the Red Rock station.”</p>

</section>

<section class='chapter'>

<h2 id='chIII' title='CHAPTER III'>
  <span style='font-size:1.2em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CHAPTER III</span>
</h2>

<p>Otis Carr, bending over the kneeling officer in the ranger
cabin, seemed fairly stupefied with astonishment as Lafe Ogden
read the words which branded him as the murderer of Ranger
Fyffe. Even when the Sheriff turned and looked up at him,
condemnation in his keen gaze and his hand instinctively seeking
his gun, Otis stood petrified, oblivious of everything but the
scrawled and blurred inscription on the floor. He still bent
forward, eyes staring, pale beneath his tan, his mouth
agape.</p>

<p>Deputy Seth Markey whipped his revolver from its holster. He
did not train it upon Otis, but stood with arms crossed, eying
him narrowly, alert for the slightest hostile move. Sheriff
Ogden rose slowly to his feet, his gaze intent upon the younger
man.</p>

<p>Through Otis’ mind flashed a picture of Joe Fyffe, wounded,
rushing into the ranger cabin, staggering toward the table,
clutching at the telephone, frantically calling for help, and
then slowly sinking to the floor, where he lay in agony. And
then the ranger, knowing his life was measured by minutes, had
striven to set down a message that would reveal the identity of
the man who had shot him.</p>

<p>In the scene as reënacted in Otis’ mind, Fyffe fumbled with
stiffening fingers at his shirt pocket, searching for the stub
of his pencil. Fighting down his agony, he scrawled his damning
indictment of Otis—his friend!</p>

<p>And Otis, still standing there, bent forward, staring down at
the floor, seemed to see the ranger’s body suddenly go limp, the
pencil dropping from nerveless fingers. And then the pool of
blood slowly widening under the motionless body.</p>

<p>“<i>Otis Carr shot me because—</i>”</p>

<p>What would the rest of the sentence have been? What if Ranger
Fyffe’s heart had pulsed a few more beats? What would he have
written?</p>

<p>And why—why had he written that Otis Carr shot him, when Otis
had been fifteen miles from the ranger station throughout the
night?</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Gradually Otis became conscious of his surroundings again. He
straightened, and looked from the Sheriff to his deputy, and
back again. He saw nothing in their gaze but cold conviction of
his guilt.</p>

<p>Why didn’t they say something? Why did they stand there,
silent and impeaching? They had him on the defensive, at their
mercy. He cleared his throat to speak, with no definite idea of
what he would say. But the words would not come, and the sounds
that issued from his lips were stammering and unintelligible. At
last he made an awkward little gesture of helplessness with his
hands, and dropped his head.</p>

<p>Sheriff Ogden, without taking his eyes from Otis, spoke to
his deputy.</p>

<p>“Take his gun,” he directed shortly. Otis remained motionless
while Markey lifted the weapon from its holster, and rapidly
passed his hands over Otis’ body in search of other arms.</p>

<p>The deputy glanced at the revolver and turned it over to the
Sheriff with the remark: “Been fired twice.”</p>

<p>“How come, Otis?” asked the Sheriff, not unkindly, but with
the air of one with an unpleasant duty to perform.</p>

<p>Otis suddenly found his voice.</p>

<p>“Shot at a rattler, just before I reached the Buffalo Forks
road.”</p>

<p>The trace of a smile hovered about Sheriff Ogden’s lips.</p>

<p>“And I s’pose whoever shot Joe Fyffe come into the cabin
afterward and wrote them words on the floor, just to throw
suspicion on you?”</p>

<p>Otis raised his head and looked Ogden squarely in the
eyes.</p>

<p>“No, Sheriff; Joe Fyffe wrote that. I’ve seen his writing
before. This is a little bit shaky, but it’s Joe Fyffe’s
writing.”</p>

<p>The Sheriff raised his brows and emitted a low whistle of
surprise.</p>

<p>“How do you account for his scribbling that on the floor,
then?”</p>

<p>“I tell you I can’t account for it,” Otis admitted. “I own up
that it struck me all of a heap. I was as much surprised as you
when I saw it. You know I never had any quarrel with Joe Fyffe.
We were friends. Why should I kill him?”</p>

<p>“Now, just between you and me, didn’t your daddy say, like
all the rest of the cow-men here, that the Gov’ment wasn’t going
to collect a penny of grazing-fees, and that the ranger ought to
be run out of the country?”</p>

<p>Otis, who had regained his color after the first shock of the
discovery, paled visibly again at the Sheriff’s question. He
hesitated an instant before he answered.</p>

<p>“Why, yes,” he retorted, “there’s no use denying that. You
know as well as I that the Government rangers aren’t any too
popular in the cattle country. But you admit that <i>all</i> the
cow-men dislike the rangers. Why should that indicate any motive
on <i>my</i> part?”</p>

<p>“I aint saying it does,” Ogden remarked. “I’m asking for
information. Now, isn’t it true, Otis, that just because you was
particularly friendly with Joe Fyffe, you thought you could talk
to him better than anyone else? Wasn’t that the reason you come
over here last night—not with any notion of killing him, mind
you—but just to tell him he’d better clear out, before somethin’
happened?</p>

<p>“I’m supposin’ that you came here to do him a service—to warn
him to git out before there was trouble, ’cause I know you and
him was pretty good friends. Now, Otis, tell me straight—wasn’t
that about the way things sized up? One word led to another.
Maybe he pulled a gun on you first, and you had to do it, or get
killed yourself. If you’ll say it was self-defense, now, maybe
that’ll go a long ways with the jury. Between you and me,
haven’t I hit it about right?”</p>

<p>Otis, staring at Ogden, his eyes narrowed and his lips
compressed, shook his head.</p>

<p>“I tell you, Sheriff, I didn’t kill Joe Fyffe. How could I
claim self-defense when I was fifteen miles from here all night?
And if I were the one who really killed him, do you think I’d
have shot him down like this, without giving him a chance?</p>

<p>The Sheriff shrugged and turned away.</p>

<p>“Remember, Otis, I’m tryin’ to help you. Of course, I can’t
make you say what you don’t want to say. But if you think you’ll
ever get away with an alibi defense, in the face of that writin’
on the floor and those empty cartridges in your gun—why, you’ve
got another guess comin’. But a self-defense plea may get you
somewheres. I’m just tryin’ to give you a tip, that’s all. It’s
none of my funeral.”</p>

<p>Otis, who had regained his composure to some extent by this
time, cried out with some display of eagerness:</p>

<p>“Well, there’s one way we can settle this whole thing,
Sheriff. Let’s ride over to Gus Bernat’s cabin right now, and if
he tells you I wasn’t at his place last night, then I’m willing
to go to jail.”</p>

<p>The Sheriff frowned and shook his head.</p>

<p>“No chance, Otis. It’s too far. I’m afraid we’ll have to take
you to Jackson under arrest, and investigate the evidence
afterward. But I’ll send word to Gus to come to town tomorrow.
If his story fits in with yours—well, then it will be up to the
prosecuting attorney to decide what to do. Seth, you telephone
the coroner. Then we’ll cut that plank out of the floor as
evidence, and get started back to town.”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>While the deputy was carrying out the Sheriff’s instructions,
Otis seated himself at the table, and rolled and lighted a
cigarette. He made note of the fact that there was not the
slightest tremor in his fingers, and was glad, for he knew his
every act was being observed closely, and that evidences of
nervousness would not help him.</p>

<p>He had banished the panic which had possessed him at first
when he read the dead man’s accusation. Now he reflected that
all that was needed to tear asunder the veil of suspicion which
enveloped him, was Gus Bernat’s alibi. His spirits rose with the
thought, but he did not neglect to study every feature of the
room as he waited. For he knew that even though Bernat’s alibi
would free him from facing trial, nothing but the discovery of
the identity of the real murderer would absolve him from
suspicion in the minds of the residents of the community. And
there was one person in particular whose regard had come, within
the last few days, to mean far more to Otis than he had realized
until he had been snared in this trap of Fate.</p>

<p>“All right, Otis, let’s go,” Sheriff Ogden called when the
deputy had ripped from the floor the plank containing Joe
Fyffe’s dying words. He permitted the door of the ranger cabin
to remain unlocked, explaining that the coroner would fasten it
after removing the body.</p>

<p>Otis’ chestnut pony, a rugged little mountain animal which
had gained the name of “Pie-face” because of the splotched white
star between his eyes, turned an inquiring look at the approach
of his master. Like all Western saddle-horses, Pie-face had been
taught to stand as though hitched as long as his reins were
trailing on the ground. As Otis passed the reins over the
animal’s head, he threw one arm about the neck of his loyal
little mount and patted him affectionately. Here, at least, was
one friend who would always believe in him!</p>

<p>“Looks like rain, Sheriff,” Otis drawled with assumed
nonchalance. “Look at those clouds rolling over the Tetons. By
the way, are you going to use your—er—handcuffs?”</p>

<p>“Handcuffs?” repeated the Sheriff almost indignantly. “What’d
we want with handcuffs? We got our guns, and you aint armed. You
wouldn’t dare make a break. We know it, and you know it. No,
Otis, I aint going to rub it in. But if you’ll give me your
promise you wont try to make a break, it’ll make it a whole lot
easier for me.”</p>

<p>Otis laughed shortly. Already they had started down the
narrow trail which led from the ranger station to the Buffalo
Forks road. Markey was in the lead, and Ogden brought up the
rear.</p>

<p>“Sure, Sheriff—I’ll promise you I wont try to get away. If I
tried to escape, that would be a mighty good sign that I’m
guilty, and that I’m scared to face a showdown, wouldn’t
it?”</p>

<p>They were nearing the road, which skirts Red Rock creek, when
Markey suddenly reined in his mount and directed Ogden’s
attention to a moving figure in the aspens beyond the stream.
For a moment Sheriff and deputy eyed the figure and conversed in
undertones.</p>

<p>“Looks like one of the Radley boys,” Sheriff Ogden announced
at length. “Wonder what he’s doing over here, so far off his own
range. Guess we’d better find out.”</p>

</section>

<section class='chapter'>

<h2 id='chIV' title='CHAPTER IV'>
  <span style='font-size:1.2em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CHAPTER IV</span>
</h2>

<p>“What’re you going to do with me?” Otis inquired, the trace
of a smile playing about his lips.</p>

<p>The Sheriff, puzzled, turned to his deputy.</p>

<p>“You better stay here with Otis, Seth,” he directed. Then he
glanced at the spot across the stream where the moving figure
had disappeared in the trees. For an instant he pondered,
uncertain.</p>

<p>“No,” he announced in a moment, “that wont do. It would take
two of us to get him, now that he’s in that timber. Guess we’ll
have to let him go.”</p>

<p>“Wait a minute,” objected the deputy. “I’ll fix it so we can
both go.”</p>

<p>He swung from the saddle, reached in his saddlebags and drew
forth a pair of nickel-plated handcuffs.</p>

<p>“Hate to do this, Otis,” he began hurriedly, “but we wont be
gone long. Just step over by this tree.”</p>

<p>Otis dismounted, not at all pleased that his pledge not to
attempt to escape had not been accepted. He resolved, however,
to make no protest, knowing that were he in the place of his
captors, he would take every precaution to prevent the escape of
a prisoner, if he deemed that prisoner guilty of murder. So
without a word he stepped to the tree.</p>

<p>The deputy snapped one of the steel circlets about his left
wrist. Then he brought Otis’ right hand about the trunk of the
tree, a fairly large lodgepole pine, and snapped the other end
of the handcuffs about his right wrist. Otis was left standing,
facing the tree, his arms about its trunk, and his wrists
pinioned on the other side of the pine.</p>

<p>“Sorry,” the deputy told him shortly as he flung himself into
the saddle again. “We’ll be back pretty soon.”</p>

<p>The Sheriff had said nothing while Markey had been fastening
Otis’ arms about the tree. Otis watched them ford the creek and
plunge into the timber on the farther bank. He was glad that the
tree was far enough removed from the road that none of his
friends, who might be passing, could discover him in his
humiliating predicament. Pie-face stood on the creek bank, a few
yards distant, cropping the grass by the water’s edge. Otis knew
that so long as his bridle was dragging there would be no danger
of his straying away into the timber.</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>For perhaps five minutes Otis struggled vainly to work
himself into a position where he might draw his tobacco and
cigarette papers from his vest pocket. Finally, with an
exclamation of impatience, he desisted in his attempt to prepare
a smoke, and devoted his efforts to devising a means whereby he
might sit down.</p>

<p>This, too, he found to be impossible. The base of the
tree-trunk was too large, and the roots sloped off over the
creek bank at such an angle as to make a sitting posture out of
the question.</p>

<p>Otis was curious to know the result of the expedition of
Sheriff Ogden and Seth Markey in pursuit of the figure which had
melted into the timber. He too had caught a fleeting glimpse of
the man, and believed it to be “Soggy” Radley of the Jackson’s
Hole country. Soggy had gained his sobriquet through his ability
to enjoy his own flapjacks, which no one else, even his brother
Ginger, could stomach.</p>

<p>The presence of one of the Radley boys so far from his own
range was full of meaning to Otis. Coupled with the recent
brandblotting from which various stockmen in the vicinity had
suffered, it meant that Soggy would have much to
explain—particularly in that he was not keeping to the open
trail, but was skulking through the timber afoot.</p>

<p>A chipmunk approached Otis over the rocks in a series of
quick advances and shorter retreats. The little animal finally
reached a point within a yard of his feet, and for a moment sat
erect on its haunches, eying him curiously from beadlike eyes.
Presently it discovered a seed fallen from a pine-cone, and
retired to a near-by rock, where it sat nibbling away and
flirting its tail, but keeping a wary eye upon him.</p>

<p>Otis wondered what Sheriff Ogden would do if he should
discover Soggy Radley in the act of using a running-iron on a
Footstool calf. He believed that the Sheriff would relish making
such an arrest far more than he had relished making the arrest
of Otis himself on the charge of murdering Ranger Fyffe.</p>

<p>The capture of one of the Radley boys, with sufficient
evidence for a conviction, would meet with popular approval, and
would make many votes at the next election. Otis knew Sheriff
Ogden to be an easy-going official of the type which makes a
good politician, eager to please everyone, if possible, and
loath to make enemies.</p>

<p>Although the Sheriff was likable enough, and when the
occasion demanded it, a fearless officer, Otis knew that most of
his official acts were accomplished with an eye to their effect
at the next election.</p>

<p>He believed, also, that Ogden would have been reluctant to
cause his arrest, had he not been convinced of Otis’ guilt. And
in view of the circumstances of the damning bit of writing on
the cabin floor, and the empty shells in his revolver, he could
not hold it against the Sheriff that that official was so
confident he had committed the crime.</p>

<p>“Wait until he talks to Gus Bernat,” Otis said aloud,
frightening the chipmunk, “then I’ll have the laugh on him.”</p>

<p>It would be odd indeed, he thought, if the Sheriff should
return with Soggy Radley as his prisoner, charged with the theft
of cattle from Otis, whom he held on a charge of murder.</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>A cold wind, sweeping down from the snow-covered Tetons, set the
leaves of the quaking aspen atremble, and sung through the
branches of the pines. Otis glanced at the sky, and uttered an
exclamation of exasperation.</p>

<p>“Looks like I’m in for a good drenching,” he remarked to the
chipmunk, which scuttled away among the rocks again. “It’s a
wonder they didn’t take a look at the weather before they left
me chained up like this. But then, I suppose prisoners can’t be
too particular.”</p>

<p>The wind ceased. A big drop of rain splashed on the rock
where the chipmunk had sat. Then, with a rush, the storm broke.
The wind lashed the aspen grove, until Otis, peering through the
sheets of rain, could see nothing but the silvery under side of
the leaves.</p>

<p>He shrank against the tree, circling to the east so the trunk
might afford him some measure of protection from the driving
rain. He was thankful for the little shelter that the spreading
branches of the pine gave him.</p>

<p>There was a flash of lightning—the lessening roll of thunder
echoing from the rocky walls of the gulch. He could barely make
out the trees on the far side of the creek. Pie-face, his back
humped to the storm, stood head down, now and then casting a
curious glance at his master, who made no move to lead him to
shelter.</p>

<p>Suddenly there was a terrific report. Otis believed he could
feel the earth tremble beneath him. He knew that the lightning
had struck a tree somewhere in the gulch near by.</p>

<p>Then, for the first time, he was assailed by a questioning
fear for his own safety. He remembered coming upon the bodies of
a score of sheep that had sought shelter beneath a huge tree in
the highlands near Two-Gwo-Tee pass two years before, only to be
electrocuted in a mass when a bolt of lightning struck the tree.
He cursed the deputy for his thoughtlessness in chaining him to
the pine, when it was plain that the electrical storm was
approaching.</p>

<p>Tied to his saddle was his slicker, which might have saved
him from the chilling rain. He called to Pie-face, but the
animal, true to the tradition of the range horse, would not stir
so long as his bridle was dragging.</p>

<p>Presently he raised his head and sniffed suspiciously. He
thought he detected the odor of burning pine. He wondered if the
lightning had set fire to the tree which it had struck. He edged
about his tree and swept every portion of the narrow gulch with
a searching glance.</p>

<p>What if the lightning had started a forest fire? He had known
of fires started by lightning which had swept through the timber
for miles before they had been checked or had burned themselves
out. Was he chained and helpless in the path of such a fire, to
be burned to death without a chance for his life?</p>

<p>Presently, however, the storm subsided. A few minutes more,
and it had gone as suddenly as it had come. The sun broke
through over the jagged crest of the Tetons. Otis watched the
black rain-clouds as they swept on rapidly eastward.</p>

<p>Still there was no sign of the return of Sheriff Ogden and
his deputy.</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Otis edged about the tree into the sun light. He became
conscious, presently of a low hum which seemed to pervade the
air. Pie-face pricked up his ears nervously and stood gazing up
the gulch. The chipmunk emerged from the rocks and scuttled away
up the mountainside.</p>

<p>The hum grew into a roar. The roar became like the crash of
artillery.</p>

<p>Otis shot one glance up the narrow gulch. He saw a brown wall
of twisting, turning and crashing timber sweeping down upon him.
He could see no water. Yet he knew that the twelve-foot wall of
smashing treetrunks and rubbish was the forefront of a brown and
swirling flood.</p>

<p>He threw himself backward with all his weight in an attempt
to break his bonds. The handcuffs bit deep into his wrists, but
held. He was insensible to the agony as he threw himself
backward again and yet again.</p>

<p>Twice he had seen sudden floods caused by mountain
cloudbursts sweep down a narrow gulch, carrying everything
before them, eating away at the mountainside and tearing out
great boulders in their path. He had seen a stanchly built log
cabin blotted out in an instant, and had aided in the search for
the body of its occupant, which was never found.</p>

<p>Terror conquered training in Pie-face. The horse broke and
ran, striking diagonally up the rocky slope, struggling upward
with the agility of a pine marten.</p>

<p>Even as he struggled, Otis, white-faced and gasping, could
picture himself crushed beneath the crashing wall of logs. With
a tremendous heave, he threw himself backward for the last time.
The handcuffs held.</p>

<p>He swung himself about the tree. It flashed through his mind
that its sturdy trunk might protect him to some extent against
the shock of the impact. But even if he were not crushed like a
bear in a deadfall, he felt that, chained to the tree, he would
be drowned beneath the chocolate waters. In a last frantic
effort to escape he began awkwardly to climb the tree.</p>

<p>The cold breath of the flood engulfed him. The smashing of
the timbers drowned out all other sound. He closed his eyes and
clung to the trunk.</p>

<p>Then the flood struck.</p>

</section>

<section class='chapter'>

<h2 id='chV' title='CHAPTER V'>
  <span style='font-size:1.2em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CHAPTER V</span>
</h2>

<p>“On the level, Miss Lancaster,” Jess Bledsoe was saying as
they jogged along the Buffalo Forks road, “Otis Carr is a mighty
fine chap. All the boys hereabouts like him. A little retiring,
sometimes, and mighty awkward all the time. But he’s pretty
level-headed, except once in a while when he lets his temper get
away with him. And he knows the cattle business from hoof to
ears, and range to stockyards.”</p>

<p>Mariel smiled. “Margaret worships her big brother,” she
volunteered. “She used to show me his letters while we were at
school together. From what she told me about him, I rather
expected to find him a sort of superman. He isn’t at all as I
pictured him.”</p>

<p>Jess glanced at her curiously. “You aren’t disappointed, are
you?” he asked with just a trace of jealousy in his query.</p>

<p>“Indeed I’m not,” Mariel replied, looking away. “He isn’t a
superman by any means. He’s very human.” And then, as an
afterthought, she added: “And modest!”</p>

<p>Jess looked at her a trifle suspiciously. “You know,” he
said, “there’s grown to be quite a friendly rivalry between Otis
and me.” Mariel shot a doubtful and inquiring glance at him.
“Each of us wants to be the first to catch the rustlers who have
been getting into our stock,” he went on; and Mariel breathed a
sigh of relief.</p>

<p>“We both believe the Radley boys over in Jackson’s Hole are
the ones responsible for all this rustling, but so far, we
haven’t been able to prove a thing. If the boys ever catch them
at it—well, it’s going to be pretty tough on the Radley
brothers.”</p>

<p>“But isn’t cattle—er—rustling just plain stealing?”</p>

<p>“Some say it’s worse than that, Miss Mariel.”</p>

<p>“Well, then, why don’t the police, or whoever enforces the
laws, arrest these people and bring them to trial?”</p>

<p>Jess laughed good-naturedly.</p>

<p>“Well, there’s several reasons for that. The penalty provided
by the law isn’t stiff enough to worry the rustlers much. So the
cattle men sort of figure that they can attend to the situation
without bothering the Sheriff about it. And they can, usually—
if they’re smart enough. But it seems that none of us hereabouts
is quite smart enough to catch them in the act. They do say that
sooner or later they all get caught. But as long as these
rustlers don’t overplay their hand, they may continue to get by
almost indefinitely.</p>

<p>“They say that a good many of the ranches in this country
were built up by the—er—foresight of their owners in keeping a
keen eye on mavericks, and in not being too particular as to
what stock they placed their brands on.</p>

<p>“Now, maybe these rustlers are just following their example.
Maybe they intend to build up a herd the way the others have
done, and then quit rustling and operate—er—legitimately.</p>

<p>“In the second place, the Sheriff can’t go out and arrest
Soggy Radley or his brother just because Otis Carr or I or
anyone else happens to entertain a suspicion that they’re cattle
rustlers. Remember, such a charge would have to be tried before
a jury, and so the Sheriff would have to have something more
than suspicion before he made an arrest. And maybe the jury
would include one or two cow-men who hadn’t been so particular
themselves in slapping their brands on stray stock. So, even if
you’ve got pretty conclusive evidence, that doesn’t necessarily
mean a conviction.</p>

<p>“No, the boys figure on handling the situation themselves,
and I guess it’s just as well. Sooner or later Otis or I or some
one else is going to get something on these Radley boys. And
then they’ll decide to drift along through the Tetons to Idaho
or somewhere where the climate’s more agreeable. If they
don’t—well, they’ll get what Ed Gunn the outlaw got, when he
shot this finger off. They hanged him afterward.”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Mariel, puzzled, shook her head.</p>

<p>“I don’t know that I quite get your point of view out here,” she
told Jess soberly. “At home when anything like this happens, we
go to the proper authorities, and they do something about it.
Here you seem to take things into your own hands, without regard
for authorities—that is, if you don’t actually oppose the
authorities, as in the case of the forest rangers.”</p>

<p>Jess turned in his saddle and peered at her searchingly.</p>

<p>“Did Otis tell you about our trouble with the ranger
here?”</p>

<p>“That picturesque old cowboy, Mr. Sample, told me about some
bloodthirsty plot which was being concocted to frighten the
ranger into leaving this region. I think it’s a cowardly thing
to do!”</p>

<p>“Old Simp?” Jess laughed. “He shoots off his mouth just to
hear himself talk. I wouldn’t believe everything he says, Miss
Mariel.”</p>

<p>“Then it isn’t true?”</p>

<p>“Well—” Jess hesitated. Without answering her question, he
asked: “Did old Simp mention—er—anyone in particular?”</p>

<p>“I think he spoke of their drawing lots to choose one of
their number to deliver the threat to the ranger. But I believe
he said the man refused to be a party to the outrageous
proceeding.”</p>

<p>“Did he mention any names?”</p>

<p>“No, I think not. Why? Do you know the man?”</p>

<p>Jess grunted. “Now, Miss Mariel, you’re asking me to tell you
something I shouldn’t.”</p>

<p>Mariel lifted her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bledsoe.
I have no desire to pry into any of your secrets.... Look
at those black clouds. Don’t you think we’d better turn back
to the far—ranch, I mean?”</p>

<p>Jess was worried, and showed it.</p>

<p>“You wouldn’t want me to turn talebearer, would you, Miss
Mariel?” he asked her.</p>

<p>“Not at all,” Mariel replied coolly, reining in her horse.
“Don’t you think it’s going to rain?”</p>

<p>Jess laid a gloved hand on her bridle.</p>

<p>“Now, Miss Mariel, I didn’t mean to offend you,” he pleaded.
“Can’t you see the position you put me in?”</p>

<p>Mariel turned her back on him—perhaps that he might not see
the smile playing about her lips.</p>

<p>“But you admit there was such a conspiracy?”</p>

<p>“If you want to call it that—yes.”</p>

<p>“And Mr. Sample wasn’t stuffing me, then?”</p>

<p>“In the main he was right, I suppose. But old Simp does love
to paint things in lurid colors.”</p>

<p>“And you don’t think it’s going to rain?”</p>

<p>Jess scanned the black clouds which now obscured the
Tetons.</p>

<p>“These mountain showers don’t last very long. We can find
shelter under some of these overhanging rocks.”</p>

<p>“I think I prefer to start back to the ranch. Isn’t this
thing rolled up behind my saddle a raincoat?”</p>

<p>“It’s a slicker, Miss Mariel. If you really want to turn
back, you’d better put it on before we start.”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>At a glance from her he leaned over, untied the thongs
which held the slicker, and without dismounting, held it while
she thrust her arms in the sleeves.</p>

<p>Mariel, unaccustomed to the foibles of Western horses, drew
the yellow oilskin forward with a widespread flourish. Instantly
Dynamite, old but temperamental, leaped forward and bolted. Ears
laid back, his body close to the ground, he started down the
Buffalo Forks road, bent on outrunning the flapping slicker
which had frightened him.</p>

<p>His first leap had almost dislodged Mariel from the saddle.
She did not scream, but a startled cry of alarm burst from her
lips as Dynamite bolted.</p>

<p>She had let the reins drop as she had raised her arms to don
the slicker. Now she clutched at the pommel, and clung to it
with every ounce of her strength.</p>

<p>Instantly Jess had dug his spurs into his white-stockinged
chestnut. He was but two lengths behind old Dynamite, and the
chestnut was a far fleeter animal.</p>

<p>Jess might have overtaken Dynamite, and forced him to stop by
crowding him into the embankment on the far side of the road. Or
he might have grasped the bolting horse’s bridle, causing him to
slow down gradually.</p>

<p>But Jess was nothing if not dramatic. He spurred the chestnut
forward until he was racing neck-and-neck with Dynamite. He
leaned over and grasped Mariel about the waist. He threw his
weight back and dragged her from the saddle, meanwhile reining
in the chestnut, which came jerkily to a halt.</p>

<p>Jess lowered the girl to the ground. He leaped from the
saddle, and an instant later was supporting her with an arm
about her waist.</p>

<p>For a moment Mariel clung to him, gasping. Slowly the color
returned to her face. Presently she moved away from him
uncertainly. He made as if to follow her, but was fended off by
an outstretched arm.</p>

<p>“Oh!” she panted, speaking for the first time. “That was
splendid of you, Mr. Bledsoe! Why, I might have been
killed!”</p>

<p>“It was nothing,” Jess assured her with every appearance of
modesty. “I’m glad I could be of service—Mariel.”</p>

<p>It was the first time he had addressed her by her first name.
She affected to take no notice of it.</p>

<p>“I don’t know how I can ever repay you,” she protested. “If
it hadn’t been for—”</p>

<p>“Forget it!” Jess interrupted magnanimously. “If you feel
faint—” He stepped forward again.</p>

<p>“Oh, I’m all right now,” she assured him with a little laugh.
“Look at Dynamite. He’s cropping the grass as if he’d never in
the world thought of running away.”</p>

<p>Jess knew better than to attempt to press his advantage too
far. He stalked forward with jingling spurs and grasped the
bridle of Dynamite, who had come to a halt a score of yards
away.</p>

<p>“I—I guess we’d better start back. It’s starting to rain,”
she faltered, plainly a bit afraid of her mount, who eyed her
innocently when Jess led him back.</p>

<p>“Don’t let him see you’re scared of him,” Jess advised,
cupping his hands to help her into the saddle. “Just keep that
slicker from flapping, and he wont try it again.”</p>

<p>The pounding of hoofs became audible down the road. Both
turned, and presently a horseman rounded a turn in the road at a
full gallop. He drew in as he came abreast them. It was Spider
Ponsonby, a lanky member of the Footstool outfit.</p>

<p>“Heard the news?” he called. And then, without waiting for a
reply: “Ranger Joe Fyffe was murdered last night. And the
Sheriff’s got Otis Carr under arrest!”</p>

</section>

<section class='chapter'>

<h2 id='chVI' title='CHAPTER VI'>
  <span style='font-size:1.2em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CHAPTER VI</span>
</h2>

<p>Otis felt the trunk of the tree tremble and give at the first
shock of the flood. Almost instantly the rushing waters
overwhelmed him. Their icy grip clutched and tore at his arms
and legs as he clung to the trunk. All sight and sound was
blotted out by the chocolate flood.</p>

<p>Abruptly he became conscious that he no longer was in an
upright position. Still clinging to the tree, he felt himself
turning over and over with it. He remembered that the roots had
been partly exposed in the creek-bank, and knew that the pine
had been uprooted by the flood.</p>

<p>For a mere instant he felt himself above the surface. He
gasped for breath. Immediately he was plunged beneath the
rushing waters again. He clung to the tree with all his
strength. He knew that once his legs were torn from the trunk,
he would be hurled about by the torrent until his arms, still
pinioned by the handcuffs, would be snapped in a dozen
places.</p>

<p>Strangely enough, his terror of the instant before had left
him. His brain was remarkably clear. He knew that what little
chance for life was left him depended upon his clinging to the
tree.</p>

<p>His first impulse had been to struggle. Instinct urged him to
release his grip, to strive to break his bonds, to fight his way
to the surface. But reason conquered. He gripped the whirling
tree with every atom of his strength.</p>

<p>With a jar that racked every bone in his body the tree
stopped. For just an instant he felt the swift current tugging
at his body again. Then he felt the tree lifted from the
water.</p>

<p>He shook the water from his eyes. At first he saw a jumble of
rocky walls and green trees and blue sky and chocolate water.
Then he realized that he was upside down. He saw that the
tree-top had collided with a huge boulder. The force of the
water was hurling the trunk, roots uppermost, through the arc of
a huge circle. The tree-top, jammed against the boulder, formed
the axis of the arc.</p>

<p>It seemed ages before the tree was upended, and crashed down
again through the lower half of the arc. Clutching leechlike,
upside-down, he had time to note that the tree-top was now but a
mass of jagged branches, broken off close to the trunk. But
although it seemed ages that he was being hurled through the air
with the tree, in reality he had barely time to gasp again for
air before he was plunged beneath the surface. Once more he felt
himself whirling and turning with the tree as it was swept down
the rocky gorge.</p>

<p>Otis had feared that he would be crushed in the maelstrom of
milling logs and debris at the forefront of the flood. A quick
glance while he hung suspended in the air showed him that the
boiling surface of the waters was free of all except the
smallest branches. He knew that the tree must have withstood the
first shock of the flood—the wall of water he had seen bearing
the swirling mass of timber.</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>But the peril of being crushed in the tumbling conglomeration of
debris was far from being the only risk. He knew that at any
instant he might be battered against a boulder, or ground
between the trunk and the rocky walls of the gorge. True, the
jagged stumps of the branches at one end of the trunk, and the
spreading mass of roots at the other to some extent served to
protect him from the rocks. Once, indeed, he felt a shock and
became conscious of a numbness in his right leg. He never knew
whether it was a jutting boulder or a log which had struck him.</p>

<p>He was becoming dizzy from the ceaseless whirling, and from
the repeated necessity of holding his breath. He feared he would
become so dazed that his grip on the tree would relax. The tree
collided with another rock, and the shock left him
breathless.</p>

<p>Strangely enough, he had no fear of drowning, so long as he
could remain conscious. He knew that unconsciousness meant
drowning, or else being beaten to a lifeless pulp against the
rocks. But every few seconds he would find himself thrown above
the water as the trunk revolved in the murky maelstrom. And each
time he managed to gasp for breath before he was again
submerged.</p>

<p>Suddenly above the roar of the flood came a terrific,
wrenching crash, accompanied by a shock that left his senses
reeling. There was a rending and a tearing of splintered wood.
He felt his grip loosen on the rough trunk. The lower part of
his body was torn away from the tree.</p>

<p>“This is the end,” was the one thought that emerged from the
confusion of his senses.</p>

<p>The flood clutched at him, dragged him along the trunk, his
manacled wrists jerking and tearing along the rough bark.
Darkness overwhelmed him. He felt that he was floating away on
billowy clouds. The roar of the flood grew dim....</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Returning consciousness found Otis Carr lying on a high gravel
bar. He started to raise a hand to his eyes; but he had
forgotten the handcuffs.</p>

<p>He sat up. He still heard the roar of the flood. As his brain
cleared, he saw the brown waters rushing past, less than a yard
from his feet. A chocolate fountain spurted high in the air
where the rushing waters encountered a submerged rock. The
tree—</p>

<p>He looked about for the tree that first had been the means of
pinioning him in the path of the flood, and then had been the
means of saving his life. Thirty yards upstream he saw a mass of
roots jammed between two boulders. An immense splinter was all
that remained of the bole. The branches and upper portion of the
trunk were nowhere to be seen.</p>

<p>Otis rose slowly to his feet. His right leg was still numb.
The sleeves of his coat, above the manacles, were ripped and
frayed. Blood trickled in a thin stream from beneath one cuff.
His clothing was saturated with the muddy water. Every muscle in
his body was stiff and sore. He felt of a good-sized lump above
one ear, but noted that there was no abrasion.</p>

<p>Gradually, as he stared at the mass of roots jammed in the
boulders, it dawned on him what had happened. The tree—his
tree—had collided with the boulders with terrific force. The
impact had been so great that the trunk had been shattered. The
upper part of the tree had been swept downstream by the current,
which had dragged him along the splintered portion of the trunk
until it had swept him free. It had carried him, too,
downstream, to cast him up on the high gravel bar as if he had
been but another fragment of driftwood.</p>

<p>He wondered how far downstream he had been swept by the
flood. The time he had been buffeted about by the onrush of
waters had seemed interminable. He cast about to get his
bearings—and to his surprise, he found he was barely three
hundred yards from the spot where he had been manacled to the
tree.</p>

<p>Slowly, because of his stiffened limbs and handcuffed wrists,
he climbed up the rocks and out of the gorge. He made for the
Buffalo Forks road sixty yards away, and started back upstream.
Rounding a bend in the road, he beheld Pie-face standing, ears
upraised inquiringly, not one hundred feet above the spot where
Otis had been swept away with the tree.</p>

<p>Otis swung into the saddle, and immediately Pie-face started
down the road at a trot. Unlike the cavalry horse, which is
trained to stand after the rider mounts until a touch of the
heels gives him the signal to go, the range horse moves the
instant he feels the weight of the rider in the stirrup. So Otis
without directing the horse, found himself headed back toward
the Footstool ranch.</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>For the first time he realized that it might be unwise to return
to the ranch, particularly with his wrists in manacles. His
narrow escape from the flood had driven from his mind, for the
time being, all thought of his predicament resulting from his
arrest for the murder of Fyffe. Now it was brought home to him
forcibly by the instinctive course of his horse.</p>

<p>What should he do? Undoubtedly he could make his way to the
ranch and rid himself of the handcuffs. Any of the ranch
employees, he knew, would assist him in filing them off, and
would aid in his concealment from the Sheriff, if he asked it.
For that matter, virtually any of the cattle men between Jackson
and Two-Gwo-Tee would do as much, if they knew he was sought for
the slaying of the ranger.</p>

<p>It would be easy enough to make his escape. Nowhere in the
United States were conditions more favorable for flight from
pursuing officers. Jackson’s Hole lay but a few miles to the
west, and beyond the Hole lay the Tetons, offering a secure and
inviting sanctuary. More than that, he knew the pursuit would be
far from diligent. Undoubtedly Sheriff Ogden, to save his face,
would follow him as far as the Tetons. But he knew the Sheriff,
if he possessed any sort of an excuse, would probably prefer to
have him escape.</p>

<p>And then, the Sheriff might believe him drowned, swept away
in the flood, which was still roaring through the gorge. Again,
Otis could, if need be, bring pressure to bear upon Ogden if he
became too conscientious, simply by revealing that he had left a
prisoner, chained and helpless, in the path of the flood.</p>

<p>On the other hand—why should he flee from a charge which he
knew to be groundless? Flight would convince the entire
rangeland of his guilt—if it retained any doubt, after it heard
of the murder. Cowardice was worse than being the object of
unfounded suspicion—worse even, than paying the extreme penalty
for the crime of some one else. Besides, there was Gus Bernat,
who would swear to his alibi—</p>

<p>So Otis fought with himself his first great battle. Two hours
later Ogden’s chief deputy, sitting in the Sheriff’s office in
Jackson, brought down the forelegs of his chair in startled
surprise as he saw Otis, still handcuffed, dismount and approach
stiffly.</p>

<p>“You’re dead!” the chief deputy called out at his approach.
“Lafe phoned a hour ago that you was drownded in the flood. He’s
still huntin’ for your body.”</p>

<p>“Not quite drowned, but almost,” Otis grinned. “You see, I’d
promised Lafe I wouldn’t attempt to escape, so here I am.”</p>

<p>“Damn fool!” snorted the chief deputy. “Why didn’t you beat
it while the beatin’ was good?”</p>

<p>“I preferred to have the Sheriff turn me loose himself,” Otis
replied, smiling. “He’ll do it, too, when he hears what Gus
Bernat has to say.”</p>

<p>“Gus Bernat?” repeated the chief deputy. “Why, he was
drownded in the flood hisself. The coroner stopped for his body
on the way back with Fyffe’s.”</p>

</section>

<section class='chapter'>

<h2 id='chVII' title='CHAPTER VII'>
  <span style='font-size:1.2em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CHAPTER VII</span>
</h2>

<p>Bernat was dead! His alibi was gone! With Bernat had died
his last chance for freedom—for life itself, perhaps! What
chance remained for him to convince a jury of his innocence? He
was enmeshed in a net of overwhelming circumstantial evidence.
Who would believe his story now? Who, in the face of Fyffe’s
written message, of the empty shells in Otis’ revolver, of the
widely known enmity between the cattle men and the rangers,
would hold his weak defense as anything more than a crude and
hastily conceived fabrication?</p>

<p>The shock of the discovery of Fyffe’s condemning scrawl and
of his subsequent arrest had been great, indeed. But through it
all he had been buoyed up by the confidence that Bernat could
provide an ironclad alibi.</p>

<p>Years before, one of his father’s cowhands had been cornered
by a grizzly in the Snake River valley south of the Yellowstone.
The man had raised his rifle to fire, and the rifle had jammed.
Otis, then a boy, had been one of the party which had found the
torn and mutilated body, with the jammed rifle by its side.</p>

<p>Now he knew how the cow-hand must have felt at the instant
the rifle jammed, with the towering grizzly approaching. For he,
Otis, was left helpless before the blind fury of the law.</p>

<p>Sheriff Ogden had returned to Jackson an hour after his chief
deputy had led Otis to his cell.</p>

<p>“Yep, Gus Bernat’s dead as a doornail,” he announced with
some evidence of sympathy. “Between you and me, looks like
you’re outa luck.”</p>

<p>Otis shrugged, and tried to smile.</p>

<p>“It can’t be helped,” he replied. “Guess things aren’t
breaking my way.”</p>

<p>An embarrassing pause was broken by the Sheriff, who
began:</p>

<p>“Say, Otis—are you goin’ to say anything about bein’ left
handcuffed to that tree?”</p>

<p>“I don’t see why it’s necessary,” Otis replied. “Why?”</p>

<p>“I was just thinking,” Ogden went on, “that maybe I could
throw a few favors your way that might help a lot when it comes
time for the trial. I wish you’d just forget about that part of
it, if you can. I don’t suppose you tried to advertise the fact
that you was wearin’ handcuffs when you rode into town.
Everybody knows you was caught in the flood, and that you came
in and gave yourself up. It was mighty white of you, because I
know you could have made a clean get-away. It took us longer
than we thought to trail Radley, and he got away. But no one
knows about the handcuff part except you and me and the boys in
the office—and they’ll keep their mouths shut.”</p>

<p>Otis found that he could laugh. “I wouldn’t worry about that,
Sheriff. I tell you I don’t hold it against you that you
arrested me. You were just doing your duty.”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Sterling Carr called at the jail in the afternoon to visit
his son.</p>

<p>“It aint so bad that you shot the ranger, son,” said the old
cattle man as he gripped Otis’ hand. “But I wish you’d tell me
it aint true that you plugged him in the back.”</p>

<p>“But I tell you that I didn’t shoot him,” Otis protested. “I
was fifteen miles away at Bernat’s cabin when it happened.”</p>

<p>“That’s all right to tell the jury,” the old man returned.
“I’ll get you the best lawyer in Wyoming, and he’ll make ’em
believe it. But I wish you’d tell it to me straight.”</p>

<p>Otis went through the story from the time he had left the
Footstool ranch until his arrest. At its conclusion Sterling
Carr shook his head sorrowfully.</p>

<p>“I’m sorry you feel that you can’t confide in your own
father, Otis,” he said. “You ought to know I aint going to tell
on you.”</p>

<p>“But I tell you it’s true—every word of it!”</p>

<p>“Son, as soon as we heard at the ranch about your arrest, I
learned from the boys about the meeting last night. They told me
how they’d drawn lots to choose the man to run the ranger out of
the country. And they told me it had fallen to you, and you’d
gotten hot under the collar and told ’em to go to blazes—that
you wouldn’t do it.”</p>

<p>“Doesn’t that bear out what I say? I told ’em I wouldn’t do
it, and I didn’t!”</p>

<p>Sterling Carr shook his head.</p>

<p>“How about what old man Foster says?”</p>

<p>“What’s that? I didn’t know he had anything to do with
it.”</p>

<p>“Just this: he saw you early this mornin’, ridin’ down the
trail from the ranger station to the Buffalo Forks road.
Couldn’t be mistaken. Described your hat and your shirt and your
vest and your hoss. And that isn’t all. Frog-legs Ferguson of
the Flying A saw you farther down the trail. Now don’t you think
you’d better tell your old Dad the truth?”</p>

<p>Otis was dumfounded.</p>

<p>“It’s a lie!” he burst out. “I tell you it’s a lie. I was
never near the ranger station till I went there with Lafe Ogden.
Who told you about Foster and Frog-legs Ferguson? Did you talk
to them yourself?”</p>

<p>“No, but Sheriff Ogden did. And he told me about it just
before I come in here to see you.”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>A sudden suspicion leaped into Otis’ mind. Was the Sheriff
trying to “frame” him with manufactured evidence? And if so,
why? Why had he come to Otis, begging him to say nothing of the
incident of the handcuffs, but concealing the information about
the identifications which Otis knew were false?</p>

<p>Why should Sheriff Ogden seek to “railroad” him? What could
be the man’s motive? He and Otis, while not close personal
friends, had always been on friendly terms.</p>

<p>Could it be that the Sheriff was in some way identified with
the cattle rustlers? The thought startled him. Perhaps the
Sheriff deliberately was trying to get rid of him, because of
his activity against the rustlers!</p>

<p>And mightn’t that theory explain the action of Ogden in
chaining him to the tree in the path of the flood? Maybe he had
done it deliberately, hoping Otis would be drowned. Maybe he
feared that Otis possessed some information against him in
connection with the cattle-rustling, which Otis might disclose
if he ever came to trial.</p>

<p>But had the murder of the ranger been part of the plot? Otis
could hardly believe that the rustlers would kill Fyffe merely
to “frame up” a case against him. It would have been too easy to
have gotten rid of him by a shot from ambush.</p>

<p>And then, there was the writing on the floor of the ranger
cabin. Otis knew beyond any possibility of a doubt that the
scrawl had been written by Ranger Fyffe himself, and by no
other. No, that by no stretch of the imagination might be called
a frame-up.</p>

<p>Otis was completely at a loss.</p>

<p>“I’m sorry, Dad,” he said at length, but without revealing
any of the suspicions which had come upon him so suddenly. “I
guess the Sheriff knows what he’s doing. I’ve told you all there
is to tell, and I’ve told you the truth.”</p>

<p>Sterling Carr slowly shook his massive head.</p>

<p>“But why did you pick on Gus Bernat to give your alibi, son?”
he asked uncomprehendingly. “There’s lots of others just as
good, and better. Now, I have a hunch that if you’d remember,
even now, that it wasn’t Gus Bernat, but Jess Bledsoe that seen
you at the time of the killin’, that Jess would step right up at
the time of the trial an’ give ’em all the details.”</p>

<p>“Dad,” began Otis, very soberly, “I know Jess would do it in
a minute. But I’m not going to ask anyone to perjure himself to
save me. I believe I could clear this thing up myself, if I had
half a chance. Maybe I can, anyway. I can’t tell you how much I
appreciate your standing by me, because I know you feel that I’m
lying to you. But I tell you again, and I’ll tell you every
single time I see you, that I didn’t do it—I didn’t do it, and
that’s all there is to it. How can I make it any stronger?”</p>

<p>His father gazed out through the barred window, across the
rolling, wooded slopes of the Gros Ventre.</p>

<p>“Blamed if you don’t talk like you meant it, son. I know one
person who wont ask more than your say-so to believe it, and
that’s your sister Margaret.”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Otis was on the point of asking if Mariel had faith in his
innocence, but a sudden feeling of diffidence restrained the
question even as his lips were framing it. After all, why should
Mariel, a comparative stranger, have any reason to vary from
what seemed to be the opinion of the entire community? He kept
silent.</p>

<p>Sterling Carr went on: “It may take every penny I’ve got,
son, but I’ll see you come clear of this charge. There’s more
ways than one of handling a thing like this. But why in the name
of Sam Hill did you come back here and give yourself up after
you’d gotten away once? That’s what I can’t figure out.”</p>

<p>“I tell you I promised Lafe I wouldn’t try to escape,” Otis
replied simply.</p>

<p>His father snorted. “You’re mighty p’ticular. But I don’t
know but that I’m glad you done it, even if it turns out that it
costs me a pretty wad to clear you. I would hate to think you’d
light out after you’d passed your word. Do you know why? Because
it aint like a man that’d shoot down an unarmed man, to give
himself up to the Sheriff after he was free, just because he’d
told him he’d do it. That aint very clear, but I guess you know
what I mean. Well, so long, son. Don’t you worry, ’cause the old
man aint the kind to lay down just ’cause he draws to a bum
hand.”</p>

<p>Otis gripped his father’s hand.</p>

<p>“And say, Dad—if you’re going back to the ranch, I wish you’d
take Pie-face with you. I guess they haven’t got any charge to
hold him on.”</p>

<p>When his father had departed, Otis threw himself down on his
bunk to go over again and again the events of the day, seeking a
clue which might lead to the solution of the mysterious slaying
of Ranger Fyffe. Before the torrent of circumstance which was
sweeping him onward toward what seemed certain destruction, he
felt more helpless than he had while being tossed about in the
flood of Red Rock creek.</p>

<p>He knew that his father would move heaven and earth to bring
about his acquittal. Yet, in face of the evidence against him,
which seemed incontrovertible, he knew that even the finest
legal talent in the State would be of little avail with an
impartial jury.</p>

<p>And even so, such an acquittal would not mean vindication in
the eyes of the rangeland. He would still be known as the man
who had shot the unarmed ranger through the back. In the eyes of
Mariel, for instance—</p>

<p>He wished that he had found courage to ask his father if she
had expressed an opinion as to his guilt.</p>

</section>

<section class='chapter'>

<h2 id='chVIII' title='CHAPTER VIII'>
  <span style='font-size:1.2em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CHAPTER VIII</span>
</h2>

<p>It was night. Far away, Otis could hear the mournful wail of
a coyote. By this time the folks at the Footstool ranch must
have extinguished the big oil lamp, and have retired. The
bunkhouse would be dark. He imagined he could hear the
occasional sound of hoofs from the corral, with now and then a
nicker or a squeal—the same sounds he had heard a thousand
times before. He wondered if it would ever be his fortune to
hear them again.</p>

<p>Presently he became conscious of a vague murmur from without
the jail, which resolved itself into the sound of scores of
pattering hoofs, thudding in the deep dust of the street.</p>

<p>“Some of the boys come in to paint the town,” he thought. And
then he remembered that pay-day was two weeks distant, and that
“the boys” seldom had occasion to come to town in force at any
other time.</p>

<p>He rose leisurely from his bunk, and stepped to the bars of
his cell-room, which were some three feet from the barred
window. He peered out into the darkness, but could see nothing
but some vague and shadowy forms milling about in the gloom.</p>

<p>Suddenly he started at a crashing knock upon the outer door
of the little jail. He had heard the knock of a revolver-butt
before, and believed he recognized the sound. Three times the
knock echoed through the barren interior of the darkened jail.
Silence, and then three more knocks, more violent than ever.</p>

<p>Then, in the quavering voice of the old jailer:</p>

<p>“Ye’ve got the wrong place, boys. This aint no saloon. This
is the county jail.”</p>

<p>“We know it’s the jail!” Otis thought he remembered the
voice. “But it’s going to be a bunch o’ junk, with you in the
middle of it, ef you don’t come outa there damn quick. We mean
business.”</p>

<p>“Don’t you get fresh with me!” piped up the voice of the old
man indignantly. “They aint no bunch o’ pie-eyed cowpunchers kin
bullyrag me, I tell ye. G’long about yer business, ’fore I call
the Sheriff, an’ ye wake up in the mornin’ on the inside lookin’
out, ’stead o’ the outside lookin’ in!”</p>

<p>“Smash down the door!” came the gruff command from
outside.</p>

<p>A moment of silence—a rush of spurred boots—and the whole
building shook with the weight suddenly thrown against the
door.</p>

<p>And then, in a booming but breathless voice, Otis heard
Sheriff Lafe Ogden.</p>

<p>“What’s the trouble here, boys? What d’you want?”</p>

<p>“We want Otis Carr!” came from the midst of the crowd.
“Unlock that door, an’ there wont be no trouble. If you don’t,
we’re goin’ to tear your dinky little jail to pieces.”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Otis heard a sound of muffled cheering from the crowd. A
strange shiver ran down his spine.</p>

<p>“Oh, I guess you wont do that,” came in the voice of the
Sheriff from a point immediately outside the door. Otis thought
he detected, if not fear, a note of hesitation in Ogden’s voice.
He was afraid the Sheriff was bluffing. “Seems to me I have a
little to say as to what happens to this here jail.”</p>

<p>“We don’t want no trouble with you-all, Sheriff,” came from
the crowd. “Just give us them keys, peaceable, and there wont be
none. We don’t want to muss up your little jail.”</p>

<p>“I know you, Simp!” responded the shrill voice of the jailer,
from behind the door. “I can see ye! An’ you too, Jess, an’
Slim, an’ Spider, an’ Pink, an’—”</p>

<p>“Shut up!” boomed the gruff command of Lafe Ogden. Then,
addressing the crowd:</p>

<p>“Boys, it seems you dont know what you’re try in’ to do. I
aint goin’ to let you have Otis, an’ you might as well know it
now. What do you want with him? He’s goin’ to have a fair trial,
and if he’s guilty he’ll swing for it.”</p>

<p>An ominous silence greeted the Sheriff’s words. He went
on:</p>

<p>“There aint been a lynchin’ here since I was Sheriff, and I
don’t intend that this’ll be the first!”</p>

<p>Lynching! A shiver ran down Otis’ spine. Was that, then, the
object of his erstwhile friends? Was he to be dragged out of the
jail and unceremoniously strung up to a pine? He listened with
bated breath as the Sheriff continued:</p>

<p>“You may be able to break into the jail, all right. I’m not
sayin’ you can’t, ’cause I’m just one against forty. But I can
promise you this. I can promise you that the first six or eight
that start for this door will get punctured proper. I—”</p>

<p>“Where’s that rope?” came from somewhere in the crowd. The
words struck home with chilling effect upon Otis. “All ready?
Yip--yip--ee-e-e!”</p>

<p>Otis heard the rattle of spurs and the rush of feet. A shot
rang out from the jail door. It was followed almost instantly by
another. He heard a sharp cry of pain—from the lips of the
Sheriff, he thought. Then the sound of raw oaths, grunts, and
the trampling of feet on the wooden platform outside the
door.</p>

<p>He heard a clanging slam from the rear of the jail. He knew
that it must have been caused by the fleeing jailer as he banged
the rear door behind him.</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Now there was nothing but the confused murmur of hushed voices.
Otis could catch but a word here and there.</p>

<p>“Too bad.... We had to do it.... He might ’a’ known better.... No,
there’s no use o’ smashin’ it now—git them keys outa his
pocket.... Here, gimme that—turn him over.... That’s right.... Gimme
a hand here, Slim—don’t leave him lay here—we’ll dump
him inside.... You git that horse ready, Spider—that’s the
ticket.... Shut yore mouth an’ get busy, Curley.”</p>

<p>To Otis, locked within the cell, it seemed many minutes that
the murmur of lowered voices continued outside the jail door. He
threw himself against the flat steel bars of the cell door, but
succeeded only in bruising his shoulder sorely. With one foot
braced, waist-high, against the jamb, he wrenched and tugged at
the door.</p>

<p>Was this to be the end? Was he to be dragged out and strung
up without a chance for his life? Well, if need be, he hoped
that he could meet even the horrible death of lynching like a
man. Then, perhaps, when they learned the truth of the murder of
Joe Fyffe, they’d remember that he’d met his fate without
flinching.</p>

<p>A key grated in the lock of the outer door. A moment later
the door of the cellroom was flung open, and a dim mass of human
figures surged in. Otis conquered his first impulse to shrink
back against the bars, and stepped forward to meet them.</p>

<p>“H’lo, Otis,” came in the unmistakable voice of Simple
Sample. “Jest dropped in to pay you-all a social call. Thought
mebbe you couldn’t he’p gettin’ lonesome like in this here dump.
I bet you’re ’bout ready to move, aint ye?”</p>

<p>What sort of a farce was this? Was this the way the victim of
a lynching bee was taunted before he was dragged out to his
death? Otis could swear there hadn’t been a trace of animus in
Simple’s words.</p>

<p>“Wake up, Otis! Are you dumb?” It was Jess Bledsoe speaking.
“Don’t you know we’ve got Pie-face waiting for you outside,
honin’ to take you through the Tetons to Idaho?”</p>

<p>“What—what?” stammered Otis, astounded. “What are you going
to do? What—”</p>

<p>“Shut up an’ git out o here!” commanded Spider Ponsonby
joyously. “Like as not, some o’ the honest citizens o’ this town
will think we’re holdin’ a necktie party, and ’ll take a pot shot
at us in the dark.”</p>

<p>“But I don’t underst—” Otis was being hurried out of the jail
in the midst of the throng of cow-men. From time to time he was
dealt enthusiastic slaps upon the back. In the dim light he
discerned Sheriff Lafe Ogden, reclining against the wall just
inside the outer door. The Sheriff’s left wrist was shackled to
his right ankle with his own handcuffs. His holster swung empty
at his thigh. He was fully conscious and unharmed, and was
shaking his tingling right hand, from which his revolver had
been sent spinning by a well-directed bullet.</p>

<p>“But I thought you shot him!” exclaimed Otis in surprise as
he saw the Sheriff.</p>

<p>“He fired in the air to scare us,” explained Simple. “So Jess
Bledsoe, thinkin’ he might hurt somebody next time, shot the gun
outa his hand. Jess could hit a dime in the dark at forty
paces!”</p>

<p>They were outside now. Otis heard a familiar whinny. Pie-face
was being held by a grumbling cow-hand, indignant because his
duties as horse-holder had caused him to miss part of the
fun.</p>

<p>“But why—” began Otis, not entirely recovered from his
astonishment. “Why did you—”</p>

<p>He was standing with his bridle in his left hand, which
rested lightly on Pie-face’s mane, preparatory to mounting. A
dozen of the cow-hands clustered about him, striving to grip him
by the hand or to slap him upon the shoulder in token of their
approbation.</p>

<p>“’Cause we didn’t think you had the guts to do it,” answered
Simple, who appeared to be their spokesman. “Otis, when you beat
it last night after we-all had picked you for—for that job, you
had us all plumb fooled by your talk. When you said you wouldn’t
do it, we thought you was scared.</p>

<p>“But you was a sight smarter than we was. You wasn’t goin’ to
run your neck in no noose by agreein’ to no such con-speeracy.
No sir. We figured it all out today. You jest went over to the
ranger cabin an’ done your duty, without sayin’ a word to
nobody. You don’t s’pose we was goin’ to let you rot in jail
after that, do ye?”</p>

<p>Otis raised his hand. “But I tell you I didn’t kill Joe
Fyffe. I—”</p>

<p>A chorus of laughter greeted his words.</p>

<p>“That’s good—plumb good, Otis,” Simple cried. “All right. We
understand. You didn’t do it. Oh, no, you didn’t. You’re sure
plumb up on the law, Otis. Don’t catch you confessin’ to no such
crime. That’s right, Otis. I reckon we understand. Don’t worry;
we wont admit you done it, neither.</p>

<p>“But remember, Otis, you didn’t make no promises to the
Sheriff this time. You can hit the trail an’ go as fur as you
like, an’ we’ll guarantee nobody aint goin’ to stop you.”</p>

<p>Otis was exasperated at the stupidity of the cow-men, which
would not permit them to believe him when he said he was
innocent of the slaying of the ranger. But his heart went out to
the loyal men who had flocked to his aid, endangering their own
lives to rescue him from the jail. He swung into the saddle.</p>

<p>“Boys,” he called, one arm upraised as he strove to quell the
eagerness of Pie-face, “boys, I sure appreciate what you’ve done
for me. It was mighty white of you. You don’t believe me when I
say I didn’t kill Joe Fyffe. You tell me to hit the trail and
keep going.</p>

<p>“All right. I’ll do it. I tell you I’ll not come back—” he
stopped to calm Pie-face with a stroke of the hand—“until I’ve
found out who really did kill Joe Fyffe!”</p>

</section>

<section class='chapter'>

<h2 id='chIX' title='CHAPTER IX'>
  <span style='font-size:1.2em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CHAPTER IX</span>
</h2>

<p>The sun was an hour above Two-Gwo-Tee pass when Otis dismounted
in front of the Red Rock ranger station. He looped Pie-face’s
bridle over a post of the barbed-wire fence and made for the
cabin. The door was unlocked. He remembered that Sheriff Ogden,
as they had departed from the cabin the morning before, had
remarked that the coroner would fasten the door after removing
the body.</p>

<p>He stepped inside, and swept the interior of the principal
room with a quick glance. Nothing had been disturbed. The body
had been removed. Nothing else, apparently, had been
touched.</p>

<p>He stepped across to the combined office and sleeping-room.
It too appeared to be exactly as he had last seen it. He
returned to the other room, seated himself upon one of the log
stools, and rolled a cigarette.</p>

<p>He had been moved by no definite plan of action when he had
determined to return to the cabin. He hoped only that,
undisturbed, he might discover some clue which would lead to the
solution of the murder. Now he felt that he might conduct his
investigation in a leisurely manner. The Sheriff, if he were at
liberty by this time, without doubt would start his pursuit—if,
indeed, he made any pursuit at all—in the direction of the
Tetons. He would never dream that his prisoner had returned to
the scene of the murder.</p>

<p>He wondered if the Sheriff had been liberated from his own
handcuffs. Certainly, he thought with a smile, he could not have
been freed by the jailer, for that valiant person undoubtedly
was still running. Probably some of the residents of the town,
aroused by the shooting but loath to leave their homes at the
time of the one-man jail-delivery, had discovered the Sheriff
shortly after the departure of the cowpuncher rescuers, and had
found another key to the handcuffs or had filed them from his
wrists.</p>

<p>For a time he had feared that a coroner’s jury might be
impaneled and might visit the cabin during the morning. This
fear he dismissed, however, upon reflection that the plank
bearing Fyffe’s message, and his revolver, the two most damaging
bits of evidence, were in the hands of the Sheriff and could be
exhibited to the coroner’s jury where they were impaneled, thus
obviating the necessity of their visiting the scene of the
murder.</p>

<p>Could it be possible that Fyffe might have written something
else on the floor—some message that later had been obliterated
by the pool of blood, and thus remained undiscovered during the
investigation by the Sheriff and his deputy?</p>

<p>He doubted it. Yet, determined to investigate everything that
promised a shadow of a clue, he knelt on the floor, near the
spot where the plank had been ripped from its fastenings.</p>

<p>What remained of the blood-pool on the adjoining planking was
now a brown stain. He scrutinized it minutely. For some
unaccountable reason the interior of the room grew darker. He
wondered absently if the sun had been obscured by the clouds. He
raised his head and turned toward the door. There he saw—Mariel
Lancaster.</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>He uttered an exclamation of astonishment and dismay. She
too cried out in alarm, shrank back a step, and reached out a
supporting hand which she placed upon the door frame.</p>

<p>“Mariel!” he burst out, struggling awkwardly to his feet. “What
are you doing here?”</p>

<p>“What—what are <i>you</i> doing here?” she demanded in return. “I
thought you were in—in jail.”</p>

<p>“I was,” he grinned, “until a few hours ago, when some of my
very good friends induced the Sheriff to release me. I thought
perhaps you’d heard about it.”</p>

<p>She smiled and advanced a step. “I left the ranch very
early—before daybreak,” she explained. “I talked to no one
before I left. In fact, I wasn’t at all eager for them to know
what I planned to do.”</p>

<p>“And that was—”</p>

<p>Mariel colored slightly. “We’d been hearing so many stories
about this terrible affair. I couldn’t believe them all. So I—I
just came to see for myself.”</p>

<p>“You didn’t believe I murdered Joe Fyffe?” Otis inquired
eagerly.</p>

<p>Mariel dropped her eyes. “No,” she said, “I didn’t.”</p>

<p>“Why?” Otis persisted, thrilling oddly at her words. “Haven’t
you heard about what Fyffe wrote? And haven’t you heard about my
revolver, with the two empty shells? And haven’t you heard how I
was chosen to—to run him out of the country? Have you heard a
single thing that would indicate that I didn’t do it?”</p>

<p>“I’ve heard all those things,” she admitted. “And I must
confess I haven’t heard a thing that indicated your
innocence.”</p>

<p>“Then why,” interrogated Otis, “why do you believe in
me?”</p>

<p>Mariel shrugged. “Woman’s intuition, I suppose. And in this
case that means something that the law doesn’t consider. That’s
character. Somehow, Otis, I can’t conceive of a man of your
character doing such a thing, and doing it in such a way.”</p>

<p>“Mariel, you’re the first, and the only one of my friends
who has shown that much faith in me. Hasn’t it occurred to you
that you might be mistaken in your estimate of me?”</p>

<p>Mariel stamped her foot. “I haven’t even asked you if you
did it,” she announced, eyes flashing. “And what’s more, I
don’t intend to. I know you didn’t. That’s why I left the ranch
before dawn to come out here to the ranger station. I’m going to
prove that you didn’t. I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I
will.”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Otis longed to pour out the flood of heartfelt appreciation that
swelled up within him. But, untrained in the use of such
phrases, his lips failed him. He could only stammer, “Th-thanks,
Mariel,” as he reddened beneath her direct gaze. But his eyes
told her more of the feelings that surged within him than his
words could express.</p>

<p>“As a matter of fact,” he went on awkwardly, “that’s just why
I came back here. That is, I mean that I came to search for some
clue that might lead me to the discovery of the real murderer.
And, like you, I don’t know just what it is, but if it’s here I
mean to find it.”</p>

<p>He went on, sketching briefly for her the incidents of the
discovery of the murdered ranger and his arrest, touching
lightly upon his escape from the flood, and ending with a
condensed version of his rescue from the jail.</p>

<p>“Now, let’s reason this thing calmly,” Mariel began in a
businesslike tone when he had finished. “First, what could have
been the motive for the murder?”</p>

<p>“I don’t know,” Otis admitted frankly, “unless it could be
the same motive they’ve charged to me—that is, the natural
enmity of the cattle man toward the Government ranger. No one,
so far as I know, had any personal grudge against Joe Fyffe. He
kept pretty much to himself, and never quarreled with anyone
here, except possibly when some of the ranchers protested at the
necessity of applying to the Government for a grazing-permit.
His spare time was spent mostly in the pursuit of his hobby,
which was wild-animal photography.”</p>

<p>“Could it be that some enemy of yours, Otis, knowing that you
had been chosen to—to invite him to leave the country, had
killed him with the object of throwing the blame on you?”</p>

<p>“I’ve thought of that,” Otis replied. “For a time I believed
that might be the real solution of the case. But the one thing
that disproves it is Fyffe’s own writing on the floor. I can
swear that’s his writing. Then why, if the chief or even the
incidental motive was to cast suspicion on me, should Joe Fyffe
himself name me as his murderer?”</p>

<p>Mariel, puzzled, shook her head. “Let’s go over this thing
bit by bit. Let’s recreate the scene of the crime, just as it
was at the time you entered the cabin. Please show me just where
and how the—the body lay, and what details of the room, if any,
differ from the way you found it when you entered.”</p>

<p>Otis flung himself face down upon the floor over the hole in
the planking.</p>

<p>“This is where we found him,” he explained. “You can see part
of the outline of the pool of blood, under my arms here. The
message, which was covered with blood at first, was, of course,
written here upon the plank which the deputy tore up.”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>He rose to his knees and went on: “Right about here, say
eighteen inches from his hand, we found the stub of the pencil
he had used.</p>

<p>“It seems he had rushed into the cabin, clutched at the
phone, knocking his camera off the table, and then had sunk to
the floor, probably with the telephone instrument still in his
hands.</p>

<p>“We found the telephone hanging from the cord. The camera was
on the floor under the table—at least Deputy Markey told us he
had found it there, and had replaced it on the table.”</p>

<p>“Then the actual shooting happened outside the cabin?” Mariel
asked.</p>

<p>Otis nodded. Then he led her outside, showing her where they
had traced the trail of blood and had found the ashes, and
telling her how the Sheriff had deduced that the fire had not
burnt itself out, but had been quenched with water.</p>

<p>“And you found no tracks—no other signs of any nature?”</p>

<p>“Tracks a-plenty, but they were meaningless. You see, this is
part of the forest grazing land. Cattle have milled over this
land outside the fence both before and after the shooting, I
suppose.”</p>

<p>“Why couldn’t some of you have thought to preserve some of
the footprints you found about the fire? You could have placed a
box or something over them to protect them from the weather.
That might have solved the whole mystery. Here’s where the
shooting took place, and here’s where you should have looked for
your clues.”</p>

<p>“But Mariel, you couldn’t keep a footprint—granting we had
found any—under a box and then present it in court months
later.”</p>

<p>“No, but you could have photographed it. You could have used
the ranger’s own camera, if necessary. And photographs sometimes
reveal things the human eye can’t see. You know, Otis, I think
it might be worth while even now to photograph the ground here,
so we can study it at leisure, through a magnifying glass,
perhaps. And the interior of the cabin, too. It’s only a bare
chance, but it might aid us. Run back to the cabin and get the
camera, will you, please?”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>As Otis turned his back and made for the cabin, Mariel
knelt and made a hasty but careful examination of the earth
about the remains of the fire.</p>

<p>Otis appeared presently, fumbling the camera. He walked
toward her slowly, lowering the extension frame and extending
the bellows.</p>

<p>“Right over here,” Mariel directed. “I think we’ll take this
ground surrounding the fire, first.”</p>

<p>“Just a minute,” Otis returned, looking up. “The
plate-slide’s missing. We’ll have to find it before we can use
this.”</p>

<p>Mariel glanced up at him quickly, her lips parted, as if a
significant idea had flashed upon her.</p>

<p>“Let me see it,” she commanded, holding out her hand for the
camera. “Um-m. Just as I thought. Look at that plateholder. One
plate has been exposed. The slide hasn’t been inserted, and the
holder hasn’t been reversed. It looks as if—”</p>

<p>“I’ve got it!” Otis exclaimed eagerly. “It was the last
picture Fyffe ever took! And he must have taken it hurriedly, or
he’d have replaced the slide and reversed the plate-holder.
Maybe—maybe that last plate holds our clue! Maybe it will reveal
something about the murder!”</p>

</section>

<section class='chapter'>

<h2 id='chX' title='CHAPTER X'>
  <span style='font-size:1.2em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CHAPTER X</span>
</h2>

<p>For a moment they stood, eying each other in silence. Was this
really the clue for which they had been searching? Did the plate
hold the solution to the murder? Mariel met Otis’ eager glance
with shining eyes.</p>

<p>“But we mustn’t raise our hopes too high,” she protested.
“Remember, the camera was knocked off the table in the cabin
after Fyffe had run inside. It was closed, too. Wouldn’t that
show that the ranger hadn’t used it since—well, since some time
before the murder?”</p>

<p>“That was merely our—my conclusion,” Otis reminded her. “The
deputy found the camera on the floor under the table. In
reconstructing the crime, I leaped at the conclusion that it
must have been knocked off the table as he reached for the
phone, or when he fell to the floor. Maybe he brought it into
the cabin with him as he ran to the telephone after being shot.
It’s possible that he dropped it as he reached for the
phone.”</p>

<p>“But,” Mariel reasoned, seeking to prevent him from building
his hopes too high, “assuming that he had it with him out here
when he was shot, and assuming that he had taken some picture
that might throw light on the murder—then how did it happen that
it was closed when you found it? A man who had just been
mortally shot would hardly stop and calmly close his camera
before running to summon aid.”</p>

<p>Otis’ face fell—for just a moment. Then he replied:</p>

<p>“But I’m not sure that it was closed when it was found.
Deputy Seth Markey was the one who discovered it. The Sheriff
and I were in the other room at the time. As I remember it, it
was some time after our return, while we were speculating as to
Fyffe’s manner of dragging the phone from the table, that the
deputy mentioned that Fyffe had knocked the camera off the
table.</p>

<p>“It was closed when we noticed it. Seth hadn’t said whether
it had been closed when he found it. Maybe he closed it himself
when he picked it up and restored it to the table.”</p>

<p>Mariel, still holding the camera and regarding it curiously,
asked suddenly:</p>

<p>“At what time yesterday was Fyffe murdered?”</p>

<p>Her abrupt question took him by surprise. “We got here pretty
early in the morning. From the condition of the body and the
pool of blood, he must have been dead several hours. As I
remember, Lafe Ogden didn’t say at just what time the forest
supervisor had received the call for help from the ranger
station. But we can learn that easily enough. It would fix the
exact time of the murder. But what’s that got to do with
it?”</p>

<p>“Only,” Mariel replied slowly, “that if it was dawn or
earlier, he couldn’t have been taking pictures without a
flashlight. Did you find anything of a flash-pan, or
flash-powders?”</p>

<p>“Not a trace,” Otis replied, beginning to lose some of his
enthusiasm. “Of course, we weren’t looking for anything of the
kind.”</p>

<p>“Did you see anything of the plate-slide for the camera?”</p>

<p>“No, we didn’t notice that. Fyffe kept most of his materials
in the other room of the ranger cabin.”</p>

<p>“But if he’d been using the flash-pan and plate-slide at the
time he was shot, he’d hardly have taken them back there, would
he?”</p>

<p>“No-o. Usually a photographer, when he takes out the slide
preparatory to making a picture, places it on top of the camera,
if he’s using a tripod. If he isn’t, and it’s a small camera,
he’d be apt to thrust it into his pocket. We didn’t search his
pockets. The coroner could tell us if it was there.”</p>

<p>“Well, the next thing to do, Otis, is to develop the plate.
Shall I take it to Jackson and have it done? Or do you happen
to have facilities at the ranch for developing it?”</p>

<p>Otis laughed, and reached for the camera. “Do you think Fyffe
trusted his developing and printing to anyone else? I forgot to
tell you that the other room of the ranger cabin was used by
Fyffe as a darkroom, for developing his animal pictures. I tell
you we can develop this plate and make a print within thirty
minutes!”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Mariel gasped out a little exclamation of elation, and started
for the cabin.</p>

<p>“But don’t be disappointed, Otis, if it’s nothing but one of
his wild-animal pictures,” she told him after he had lowered the
blanket over the dark-room window, and had lighted the ruby
lamp.</p>

<p>With trembling fingers Otis removed the plate from the holder
and placed it in the tray of developing solution. But he was
unprepared for the shock of the discovery they made when, at
length, the process completed, Otis lifted the blanket from the
window and held the negative up to the light.</p>

<p>Mariel looked at it, and gasped. She looked again, and one
hand clutched her throat.</p>

<p>“Why, Otis!” she exclaimed in a voice suddenly low and husky.
“Why, Otis! It’s you!”</p>

<p>Otis was stunned. He brushed his eyes with the back of his
hand, as if to dispel a hallucination. He held the plate up and
looked again.</p>

<p>“It’s you!” Mariel repeated. “Your hat—your vest—those boots
and trousers! I could tell it was you in an instant. It’s your
build, and everything. And there, behind you, stands
Pie-face!”</p>

<p>Otis could not find his voice. He gulped once or twice,
striving for words to express his astonishment.</p>

<p>“Why, oh, why didn’t you tell me in the first place?” Mariel
was moaning. “Why did you deny it? If you’d only confided in me!
Maybe there was some reason—some extenuating circumstance! But
Otis, Otis, I didn’t think you’d lie to me! Couldn’t you have
trusted me?”</p>

<p>Otis found his voice.</p>

<p>“There’s something wrong, Mariel. It looks like me. Under any
other circumstances, I’d say it was a picture of me, even if the
face is hidden in shadow. But Mariel, it can’t be! I tell you,
something’s wrong! Pie-face and I were miles away from this
cabin when that picture was taken. Of course you wont believe
me. Nobody would, now. With Fyffe’s dying message, and the empty
cartridges in my gun, and now this picture—well, it looks like
it’s all up with me.”</p>

<p>“Perhaps,” put in Mariel hesitantly but hopefully, “perhaps
he had taken your picture at some other time, and hadn’t
developed it.”</p>

<p>Otis shook his head. “No, to my knowledge Fyffe never took my
picture. He never bothered about pictures of anything except
wild animals, so far as I know. I still think this was the last
picture he ever took. I still think it was taken before he was
shot. But I know, as well as I’m standing here, that the man in
that picture, however much he looks like me, isn’t Otis
Carr!”</p>

<p>Mariel reached for the negative. For many moments she stood
at the window, scrutinizing its every detail.</p>

<p>“What is it,” she asked finally, “that you—I mean the man in
the picture—has in his hand?”</p>

<p>Otis took the plate again and examined it. “It looks
like—Mariel, I believe that’s the clue we’ve been searching for!
Look at the horse—there! I’ve got it, Mariel—the solution of
everything! Wait until I make a print of that negative. I tell
you if that doesn’t prove the whole thing—well, then I’ll be
ready to accept the blame without a protest!”</p>

<p>After soaking the plate in alcohol, they placed it outside in
the strong dry mountain wind; and in this way dried it in half
an hour. Then awkwardly, with unsteady fingers, Otis placed the
negative in the printing-frame. Mariel waited with bated
breath.</p>

<p>“There!” Otis exclaimed when at last the print was finished.
“Look, Mariel! Isn’t it astounding? I’ve suspected it, but I’ve
never breathed a word of my suspicions to a soul. This solves
everything—<i>everything!</i>”</p>

<p>Twenty minutes later, having made an additional print, and
with the negative carefully wrapped to protect it from breakage,
Otis announced his readiness to leave the cabin. Both were
jubilant as they mounted their horses and started down the
trail. Suddenly Mariel broke out with an exclamation of
annoyance.</p>

<p>“I’ve forgotten something,” she told Otis ruefully. “No, you
needn’t bother. You ride on down the trail. I’ll go back to the
cabin, but I’ll be with you again in five minutes.”</p>

<p>Otis was puzzled, but he did not question her. Mariel
galloped back to the ranger station, flung herself from her
horse, and ran into the cabin. She seized the telephone, and
called for the forest supervisor in Jackson.</p>

<p>“Call the Sheriff and tell him that if he wants Otis Carr, he
can get him at the Footstool ranch in two hours,” she directed
without preliminaries. “Phone the Footstool ranch and tell
Sterling Carr that Otis is coming home. Tell him to have all the
boys there to meet him—everyone who was at the meeting the other
night. He’ll understand. What? No, I haven’t time to explain.
Come to the Footstool ranch yourself, and you’ll learn
everything. That’s all. Good-by.”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>Without giving the puzzled supervisor time to question her about
her startling directions, she hung up the receiver and ran from
the cabin. She remounted, and rode down the trail to join Otis.</p>

<p>“It’s all right,” she smiled at him. “We can take our time.
There’s no great hurry to get back to the ranch, now.”</p>

<p>“I don’t think I’ll go back to the ranch,” Otis announced. “I
think I’d better look up the Sheriff first thing, and place this
evidence in his hands.”</p>

<p>A shadow of annoyance flitted across Mariel’s face.</p>

<p>“Oh, let that go until you’ve shown it to your father and
Margaret,” she protested. “Don’t you think they’re entitled to
be the first ones to know the good news?”</p>

<p>“It will be a surprise to them both,” Otis grinned. “I know
Dad never suspected for a moment.”</p>

<p>“I suspected,” Mariel volunteered.</p>

<p>“Why?” demanded Otis in surprise. “You’ve only been here a
week. What foundation did you have for your suspicions?”</p>

<p>“I admit they were only of the vaguest kind,” Mariel smiled.
“They had no basis, except intuition. Do you remember what I
told you my intuition was based upon?”</p>

<p>Otis colored slightly. “I think I’d better go on to Jackson,”
he remarked without answering. “I’ll come back to the ranch
later on.”</p>

<p>“<i>I</i> am going straight to the ranch,” Mariel announced
positively. “Are you going to let me ride alone?”</p>

<p>“Oh, all right,” Otis laughed. “I guess the Sheriff can
wait.”</p>

</section>

<section class='chapter'>

<h2 id='chXI' title='CHAPTER XI'>
  <span style='font-size:1.2em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CHAPTER XI</span>
</h2>

<p>“And I tell you if I don’t prove to you who killed Ranger
Fyffe, I’m ready to go in court tomorrow and plead guilty!” Otis
was standing in the living-room of the Footstool ranchhouse,
facing a silent and grave-faced assemblage of more than a score.
It included Sterling Carr, stern and impassive; Sheriff Ogden,
who thus far had made no move to place Otis under arrest again;
his deputy, Seth Markey; Jess Bledsoe, resplendent in white
goatskin chaps; the forest supervisor from Jackson; Margaret
Carr and Mariel, whispering in one corner of the room; Simple
Sample and Spider and Slim and Curley and Pink and Tex and
possibly a dozen others from the Footstool, Flying A and other
outfits, all solemnly curious, awkward and embarrassed. Otis,
unaware of the dramatic setting arranged by Mariel for the
denouement, had taken the bull by the horns and now was
determined to bulldog him to a fall.</p>

<p>“And what’s more,” he went on, gazing intently at the
Sheriff, “I’m going to tell you, Lafe, just who’s responsible
for the rustling that’s been going on here, and just how it was
done.”</p>

<p>The Sheriff stirred uneasily. “Fire away, Otis,” he remarked.
“Between you and me, if you’ve found that out, I’ll give it to
you that you’ve done more’n I could.”</p>

<p>“All of you boys know how this rustling has been going on
here for months,” Otis commenced. “All of us have reported
losses from time to time—the Lazy Y, the Flying A, the Footstool
and others—but mostly it was the Footstool calves that seemed to
be the favorites of the rustlers.</p>

<p>“Now, most all of us seemed to hold a grudge against Joe
Fyffe because he was in the Government service. We seemed to
think the Government wanted to run us off the range. We couldn’t
see that the forest service is keeping us from ruining our own
range by overgrazing. We couldn’t see that it’s keeping the
sheep on the sheep range, and keeping the nesters where they’ll
be better off and we’ll be better off. We thought all a ranger
was good for was to fight forest-fires.</p>

<p>“I’ve kept my mouth shut up to this time, principally because
I knew how Dad felt about these things. But now I’m going to
talk straight, and I’m going to say a mouthful.</p>

<p>“You thought you could run Joe Fyffe out of the country, and
that would be all there’d be to it. You didn’t realize the
Government’d keep sending in rangers, and that another one’s due
to take Fyffe’s place at the Red Rock station now.</p>

<p>“The other night you got together, and decided you’d scare
the ranger out. You drew lots, and picked me for the job. I told
you I wouldn’t do it, and I didn’t.</p>

<p>“When he was killed, you thought I’d changed my mind, and
done it. That’s why you yanked me out of jail last night. Even
then you wouldn’t believe me when I told you I hadn’t killed
him. Boys, you’re the best friends a man ever had, but you’ve
got the wrong slant on things.</p>

<p>“After I left you the other night, I tell you I was feeling
pretty mean. I wanted to get out alone. I started up the river,
figuring I’d lay out and have a look for the rustlers. I ran
into Gus Bernat, and he asked me to stay at his cabin overnight.
If Gus hadn’t been drowned in the flood, you’d never have had to
get me out of jail last night.</p>

<p>“Along toward morning, Ranger Fyffe heard a noise outside
his cabin, I judge, from the way things turned out. He figured
it was a lion, or a cat or something. Maybe he’d planted bait
outside, and had waited all night—but that doesn’t matter.</p>

<p>“You all know Joe was a nut on taking wild-animal pictures.
He got his camera and his flash-powder, and sneaked outside to
grab off a picture of this animal that was making the noise. He
made his way through the dark of the scrub pines toward the
sound. He didn’t take a gun, ’cause he knew there isn’t an
animal left in these parts, outside the grizzlies on the edge of
Yellowstone, that’ll attack a man unless they’re cornered.</p>

<p>“He crept up toward the spot where he’d heard the noise—where
he probably heard it then. He couldn’t see the man’s fire,
because it was beyond a group of rocks. In a minute I’ll tell
you what the fire was for. He took the plate-slide out of his
camera, and got his flash-gun ready. Then, like as not, he
whistled so the animal would turn toward him, and shot off the
flash.</p>

<p>“But it wasn’t an animal making the sound. It was a man.
Maybe this man was pretty badly scared—you or I would be if that
flash went off near us in the night. Anyway, he’d faced around
when he heard Joe whistle. He dropped what he had in his hand,
and jerked out his gun, and shot.</p>

<p>“Joe was wounded. He hadn’t known it was a man. He hadn’t
expected to be shot. He turned and started to run for his gun in
the cabin. The man fired again. The bullet hit Joe in the
back.</p>

<p>“He ran into the cabin, dropped his camera, and grabbed for
the phone. He gasped a few words into the receiver, and then
dropped to the floor. He knew he was dying. He got his pencil
and wrote on the floor—you’ve all heard what he wrote.</p>

<p>“Maybe the man followed him into the cabin. I rather think he
did, because it would have been hard for Joe to have seen him
when the flashlight went off. But that doesn’t matter. He saw
him.</p>

<p>“That’s the way the Sheriff and Seth and I found things
yesterday morning. Isn’t it, Lafe?”</p>

<p>“That’s about right,” the Sheriff replied uneasily, “though I
didn’t know about any flashlight.”</p>

<p>“Now, the whole solution of this thing rests in that last
picture the ranger took,” Otis went on. “It shows who did the
shooting. Miss Mariel got the plate this morning and developed
it. Here’s the print.”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>He passed the photograph to the Sheriff, who glanced at it,
whistled softly, and passed it on to Sterling Carr. Others in
the room crowded about him, eager for a sight of the picture.</p>

<p>Sterling Carr glanced sternly at Otis.</p>

<p>“Son, this picture shows <i>you</i>!”</p>

<p>“Sure, that’s Otis!” came the bewildered tones from those
crowded about the picture.</p>

<p>“Looks like you, all right,” the Sheriff said to Otis.</p>

<p>Otis smiled indulgently.</p>

<p>“That’s what Joe Fyffe thought, too,” he remarked. “He got
one glance at the man, and thought it was me. That’s why he
wrote on the floor that I killed him. He died thinking I was his
murderer.</p>

<p>“And can you blame him? Look at that hat. Just like mine.
Look at that vest. Just like mine. Pants the same. Boots the
same. Build the same as mine. Horse looks a lot like
Pie-face.</p>

<p>“All right. We’ll let that ride for a minute. Let’s get back
to the rustling. No one ever saw the rustler, did he? No.</p>

<p>“Now look at the picture again. See that calf? Looks like it
just happened into the picture, like any of the calves on the
range around the cabin, doesn’t it? Notice its feet? Just like
it’s been hog-tied, and slipped its hind foot out of the knot,
isn’t it? Look at the brand. Not like any brand hereabouts, is
it?</p>

<p>“What’s that the man’s got in his hand? That’s right. It’s a
running-iron. That’s what he dropped when he grabbed his gun. He
must have recovered it after the murder, when he doused his fire
and beat it. Take a look at the horse, now. He hasn’t got a
star-face, like Pie-face, has he? And notice those white
stockings. Never saw white stockings on Pie-face, did you?</p>

<p>“Now we’re getting down to cases. You’ve guessed most of the
rest of it. The man’s the rustler that Fyffe surprised while he
was working over that calf with the running-iron. Dressed like
me. Did it intentional, too. If anyone saw him at a distance,
they’d think it was me, and they’d never suspect anything. And
he didn’t aim to let anyone see him close.</p>

<p>“Sheriff, you told Dad about old man Foster and Frog-legs
Ferguson seeing me near the ranger cabin after the shooting,
didn’t you? Well, I guess what they said was true enough. They
<i>thought</i> they saw me. But I tell you, whom they saw was this
man, dressed like me, and riding a horse that looks a lot like
mine. Just what this brand-blotter had figured on.”</p>

<p>“But who,” interrupted Sterling Carr, “is the man in the
picture? His face doesn’t show.”</p>

<p>Again Otis smiled.</p>

<p>“Look at the calf again,” he directed. “Now I’ll hide the top
of that brand with my thumb. What’s the bottom of it look
like?”</p>

<p>“By God!” Sterling Carr burst forth. “It’s the
Footstool!”</p>

<p>“Yes,” Otis concurred. “And that part I’ve hidden with my
thumb shows that one of the legs of the footstool had been
extended with the running-iron, over the seat of the stool,
doesn’t it? That leaves the changed brand only half
complete.</p>

<p>“Now, what brand would result if he extended the other leg of
the footstool until both legs met above the seat of the
stool?”</p>

<p>“Why,” exclaimed Sterling Carr, “it’s the Flying A!”</p>

<p>“Exactly,” grinned Otis. “Now, look at the fellow’s hand. Who
on the Flying A has a finger missing? If—grab that man!”</p>

<hr class='tb'>

<p>The last words were shot out explosively. Otis leaped toward the
figure which had shot toward the door. A dozen of the cow-hands
closed in upon the fugitive. Margaret Carr screamed. There were
grunts and oaths from the tangled mass of figures near the door.
A set of elk antlers was knocked crashing to the floor.</p>

<p>“All right, boys,” came in muffled tones from beneath the
mass of figures. “Leave him loose. I’ve got him!”</p>

<p>The heap of bodies untangled. From its midst arose Sheriff
Lafe Ogden. One hand gripped the sleeve of Jess Bledsoe of the
Flying A. His wrists were manacled in handcuffs. He glared
wildly about the room.</p>

<p>“I guess,” drawled the Sheriff, “that we don’t need to see the
face in the picture now, to know who’s been rustling the cattle
on this range, or to know who killed Joe Fyffe. Pretty shrewd,
while it lasted. Dressed like Otis, and complained to me every
so often about the rustlers, so it would look like he was losin’
calves too. Well, he wont ride that chestnut horse that looks
like Otis’ Pie-face chestnut for a while, I’ll guarantee.”</p>

<p>“I suspicioned it all the time,” broke in Simple Sample. “But
Otis, how about them rangers? Cain’t you-all figger out some way
to get rid of them, now that you’ve figgered this out so purty?”</p>

<p>“I don’t think you’ll have much trouble with the Red Rock ranger
station after this, boys,” Otis laughed. “You see, I put in my
application for a job as forest ranger months ago. Fyffe’s death
leaves the first vacancy.</p>

<p>“I was talking it over with Mariel as we rode down here from
the ranger cabin this morning. You can be sure of a square deal
all right from some one who has the stockmen’s interests at
heart. She and I decided that I’m going to take the Red Rock
ranger job just as soon—”</p>

<p>He reached out and took Mariel by the hand.</p>

<p>“&mdash;just as soon as we’re married!”</p>

<div style='text-align:center; margin-top:0.8em; font-size:0.9em;'>THE END</div>

<div class="tn">
<p>Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 1924 issue
of <i>The Blue Book Magazine</i>.</p>
</div>

</section>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 70979 ***</div>
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