Sandy rode up to the house, threw himself from the saddle and went into that room of the ranch that served as Mr. Melton's library and business office combined.

His employer looked up from some accounts he was going over and motioned the foreman to a seat.

"Well, Sandy," he said, as he noted the worried look in the latter's eyes, "what seems to be the matter? Out with it and get it off your chest."

"It's about them derned rustlers," said Sandy, with his usual directness coming straight to the point. "I'm afraid they're gettin' away with a good many of our beeves."

Mr. Melton's brows met in a puzzled frown.

"What makes you think so?" he asked.

"A heap of things," was the reply. "In the first place, the boys have found a lot of motherless calves galloping around and bleating for their mas. Of course, we always look for a few of those, but lately the number's been beyond all reason. Then, too, there's been quite a bunch of ornery fellers that the boys has caught sight of hangin' round where they didn't seem to have no business to be. Of course, that doesn't prove anything against them, and aside from givin' them a pretty sharp lookin' over, we couldn't do nothin' just on suspicion."

He took another bite from his plug of tobacco and hitched his chair a little closer.

"But yesterday," he went on, "Buck was riding herd up in the north section, and he saw a place leadin' up a gully where the ground was trampled down in a way that made it look almost as if there had been a stampede. He could see that a big drove had passed through there and that it must have been goin' in an almighty hurry. He thought at first they might have got scared of a grizzly or somethin', but if that had 'a' been so, some one of them would 'a' been caught and pulled down and there wasn't any sign of anything like that. Then he looked a little closer at the trail and he could see the track of hosses. Somebody was drivin' that herd.

"He come in a flyin' with the report, but it was after midnight and I didn't want to wake you up.

"But there's one thing more," he added, "that makes me dead sure. Chip meandered in from town last night, a little the worse for wear. He'd been celebratin' some and lookin' upon the likker when it was red, and he was so far gone that I guess he'd have slept somewhere on the road if his broncho hadn't had more sense than him and brought him home. He was too soused to know his name, and he didn't need no urgin' to tumble into his bunk and sleep it off. He's got an awful head this mornin', too, but when he heard Buck talkin' at breakfast about what he seen, he called to mind somethin' that one of his pals that works on the Bar Y Ranch off toward the east told him about, when he was a boozin' with him last night.

"It seems that this feller was comin' back from a round-up to his ranch the other day, and he saw the body of a steer, a little off to the right. He rode over to look at it, and, lookin' close, saw that the first brand had been burned over by another one. Of course, he knows most of the brands in this section of the country, and after he studied it over a spell, he knew for sure that the first brand was ours. Knew it by the little curlicue in the top corner of the O. The second brand had been put on kinder careless, in a hurry, as if the fellers that did it wanted to mosey along right quick. Then, too, he could see that the steer had died from bein' overdriven."

Mr. Melton rose and paced the floor in growing anger as he pondered the situation.

Like all Westerners, he hated cattle rustlers only less than he hated a horse thief. In years past he had had frequent battles with them when they had tried to raid his stock, and the dire punishment that he inflicted had made them willing of late to leave his ranch alone. For several years he had had immunity and had been inclined to think that he would be henceforth free of that particular pest. When Sandy had first begun to speak, he had thought there might be some mistake, and that the depletion of his stock might be traced to other causes. The last incident, however, had furnished positive proof and it was evident that the miscreants were due for another lesson at his hands.

"Was there any clue on that steer, outside of the changing of the brand?" he demanded.

"No," replied Sandy, "except just this. Chip's pal said that he thought the feller that did the branding was left-handed. The edge that was deepest burned was on the other side from what it usually is when a right-hander does it. Course, on account of the brands bein' mixed up like, he couldn't say for sure, but that's the way it looked to him."

"Do you know of anybody round these parts that is left-handed?" asked his employer.

"Can't say as I do," replied Sandy after a little meditation, "leastways, on any of the ranches around here. I know some of the boys that is almost as good with their left hand as the right, but not what you could call p'intedly left-handed. And anyway them fellers is as straight as a string, and I know they wouldn't mix up with any dirty work like that."

"Who had been riding herd on that north range before Buck saw the trail of the drove?" asked Mr. Melton abruptly.

"Let me see," answered Sandy, cudgeling his memory. "Why," he said after a moment, "it was Pedro. He had been up there three days before Buck relieved him."

"Ah, Pedro," echoed Mr. Melton.

There was a significance in his voice that caused Sandy to look up quickly, and, as he caught the look in his employer's eyes, a sudden suspicion leaped into his own.

"What!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean that Pedro was in cahoots with the gang?"

"I don't mean anything—yet," replied Mr. Melton slowly. "I don't want to do any one an injustice, and I haven't a particle of evidence that Pedro isn't as innocent as a new-born babe. He's a good rider and a good herder, and we've never had any fault to find with the way he does his work. But you know as well as I do that we didn't know a thing about him when he came riding along looking for a job. We were short-handed then and needed men desperately, and so we hired him, but I made up my mind that as soon as things got slack, and we had to lay some of the men off, he'd be the first to go. There may be good Indians and good Mexicans, and it may be my misfortune that I never met them. But Pedro is a half-breed—half Mexican and half Indian—and I've always noticed that that kind is apt to have the worst qualities of both. I've never liked him, but I've set that down to prejudice, and always tried to treat him exactly like the rest of the men. Now, as I said, I may be entirely wrong, but somehow I've got the notion in my head that those rustlers knew just who was to be riding herd on that section when they made their raid. But don't breathe a word of this to any one till we've got something more to go on. Keep your eyes wide open and see too if you can pump anything more out of Chip about that steer. I'll think it all over, and after dinner we'll get together and fix on some plan to get after those infernal scoundrels."

Sandy took his departure, and Mr. Melton was left alone with his problem. That it was a perplexing one was evident from his knitted brows and air of intense concentration.

With the exception of Mrs. Melton and Bert, he was alone in the house. The other boys were absent, having started out soon after breakfast. Dick and Tom had gone off with Buck to have a little experience in "riding herd." Bert, who had intended to go with them, had found it necessary to go to town to make some purchases. He had just finished his preparations and brought his horse to the door, in order to say good-by to his host before starting. At the first glance he saw that something had disturbed Mr. Melton's usual composure.

To his anxious inquiry as to whether anything was wrong, the latter responded by telling him the news Sandy had brought, carefully refraining, however, from mentioning his suspicions about the half-breed.

"Of course, it's nothing very important in one way of looking at it," he said. "The mere fact that I've lost a few head of cattle doesn't worry me at all. They might take a thousand and I wouldn't miss them. But those rustlers are the rattlesnakes of the West, and no man steals from me and gets away with it until I'm weaker and older than I am now. I suppose the fact is that my pride is hurt more than anything else," he smiled grimly. "I'd rather flattered myself that I'd built up a reputation in these parts that would keep those vermin at a distance. It galls me horribly that they should have the nerve to come up and rustle my stock right under my very nose. But if they think that they are going to get by with it, they have another guess coming," and into the eyes of the old warhorse came the look that Bert had learned to know in Mexico.

"Are you going to organize a force and go after them?" asked Bert eagerly.

Mr. Melton's eyes twinkled.

"Hit it right the first time," he said. "I suppose I ain't far out in guessing that you'd like to go along."

"You bet I would," replied Bert emphatically.

"Well, we'll see about it," answered his host. "But you'd better get along now if you expect to be home before dark. You've got a long way to go, and you'll have to give your horse a good breathing space before you start back. I promise that we won't start out for the rustlers without you, if you're really bent on going."

Bert thanked him, touched his horse with the spur, and, with a last wave of his hand was off on his journey.

In due time he reached the town, hitched his horse to the rail in front of the general store, and went in to make his purchases. This consumed some time, and when he was through, his vigorous appetite reminded him that it was time for dinner. There was only one place in that primitive town where it could be obtained and that was in a little annex to the leading saloon. Drinks of course were the things chiefly dealt in, but a meal also could be obtained at any time desired, and Bert went in, seated himself at a table in the corner, and ordered steak and eggs and coffee.

While this was being prepared he had ample time to look about him. The building was a mere shack of the roughest kind. The bar took up one whole side of the room, and the bartender was kept busy most of the time in serving drinks to the crowd lined up before it. At a number of small tables, miners, prospectors and cowboys were seated, with piles of poker chips heaped up before them. Some of the men were already drunk and inclined to be ugly, but most of them at that early hour were sober enough, though drinking freely. All without exception were armed, and the weapons peeped from their holsters within easy reach. Among these reckless and, in many cases lawless, dwellers on the borderland of civilization, the difference of a fraction of a second in offense or defense might mean the difference between life and death.

Still, matters were proceeding peaceably enough at the moment, and there was no indication of impending trouble. Bert's food was brought to him after a considerable wait, and he "waded" into it with characteristic vigor. The cooking was none too good nor was the food itself of superlative quality. But "hunger is the best sauce," and he was not inclined to be critical. He had, moreover, been too much of a traveler not to be able to adapt himself philosophically to any condition in which he found himself.

He was about to pick up his hat and go to the bar to pay for his meal, when he was struck by the tones of a familiar voice. He looked about quickly and saw Pedro, the cowboy employed at the ranch. He was surprised at this, as he was sure Pedro was supposed at the time to be on herd duty. Had Mr. Melton intended that he should be in town, he would have suggested to Bert that the half-breed might do his commissions for him and save him the long journey.

Bert's first thought, therefore, was that Pedro was "lying down on his job" and shirking duty for the sake of a day's debauch in town. It roused his indignation, as he always hated anything that savored of sneaking or disloyalty. Still, it was not his affair and Pedro was safe as far as he was concerned. He would not act as talebearer.

He had never liked the half-breed from the moment that he had met him. There was a sullen reticence that checked advances, and although he had always tried to be friendly, Pedro had held him at a distance. He was tall and swarthy, and, for one of his mixed race, not bad looking. But there was a furtive shiftiness in his eyes that were set too close together, that awakened distrust, and although Bert reproached himself for it and never revealed it by word or look, he could not help an instinctive aversion.

His first impulse was to approach and speak to the man, who had not seen him as he came in and was now standing with his back partly toward him, tossing down a drink that he had poured out generously from the bottle the bartender placed before him.

Bert checked himself, however, as he saw that Pedro had just greeted a man who had risen from a table where he had been sitting apart from the others, as though waiting for some one. An almost imperceptible sign passed between them that aroused Bert's curiosity. Nor was this lessened when the newcomer took from his pocket a pouch, such as gold dust is usually carried in, and slipped it over to Pedro, who placed it carefully in the breast of his buckskin shirt.

Here was the beginning of a mystery. Why should this man be giving money to the half-breed? To be sure, it might be in payment of a loan or a gambling debt. But, if so, why the air of secrecy?

The conversation with Mr. Melton that morning recurred to him. He pulled his hat over his eyes, half turned in his seat, and, picking up a greasy pack of cards that lay on the table began to lay them out before him as in solitaire. But under the brim of his sombrero, his keen eyes stole frequent glances at the two, who had now adjourned to a table in the farther corner and were engaged in a low and earnest conversation.

The stranger had before him what seemed to be a diagram, drawn on the back of an old envelope, and both studied it with care, Pedro especially, as though seeking to engrave it on his memory. Then he nodded assent to what the other had been saying, and they shook hands, evidently in confirmation of a bargain. Once more they adjourned to the bar, gulped down several glasses of the fiery liquor that masqueraded as whiskey, and then Pedro, with a gesture of farewell, went outside. A moment later Bert heard the clatter of hoofs as he rode away.

There was no further need of concealment, and with exceeding care Bert studied the features of the man who he felt sure was involved in some plan that boded no good to Pedro's employer.

The fellow was tall and heavily built, and dressed in a more gaudy style than that usually affected by the cowboys. Bert could not remember having seen him among the employees of the neighboring ranches. His face bore traces of drink and dissipation and was seamed with evil passions. There was a lurid glow in his eyes that brought back to Bert the memory of the men who had tried to hold up the train. He seemed naturally to fall into that class. Instinctively Bert felt that in some way he was to be ranked with the outcasts that war upon society. A cruel mouth showed beneath a hawk-like nose that gave him the appearance of a bird of prey. To Bert he seemed a living embodiment of all that he had ever heard or read of the "bad man" of the Western frontier.

The stranger stood a little while longer at the bar. Then he strolled over to a table where four men were playing, and watched the game with the critical eye of an expert.

Soon one of the men kicked his chair back and rose with an oath.

"Busted," he growled. "Not a dinero left. That last hand cleaned me out."

"Aw, don't go yet, Jim," protested one of his companions. "Your credit's good and you can play on your I. O. U.'s."

"Yes," agreed another. "Or you can put up that Spanish saddle of yourn. I've allers had a kind of hankerin' fur that. It's good fur eighty plunks in chips."

"Nuthin' doin'," announced the first emphatically. "Any time I hold four kings and still can't rake in the pot, it shore is my unlucky day. But I'll be here with bells on next pay day. So long," and he strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

The others were preparing to go on three-handed, when the stranger intervened.

"If it's an open game, gents, and you've no objections, I'll take a hand," he said.

As no one demurred, he slid into the vacant chair, bought a hundred dollars worth of chips and the game proceeded.

For a time Fortune seemed to divide her favors impartially, and the chips before each player remained about the same. Then the luck changed and the stranger began to win heavily. He raked in one pot after another, losing only occasionally, and then, generally, when the stakes were small. The atmosphere about the table became tense and feverish, and gradually most of the others in the room gathered about the players and watched the progress of the game.

It was the newcomer's deal. The pack had been cut, and he was dealing out the cards, when suddenly one of the players leaped to his feet.

"Foul play," he shouted. "You dealt that last card from the bottom of the pack." And at the same instant he threw over the table and reached for his gun.

But quick as he was, the stranger was quicker. Like a flash his revolver spoke, and his opponent fell to the floor. But the others now had started shooting and there was a fusillade. The spectators dropped behind anything that promised shelter and the bartender went out of sight under the counter. Only after the revolvers had been emptied did the firing cease.

When the smoke lifted, three were lying on the littered floor, one dead and two desperately wounded. The stranger was not to be seen, but the pounding of hoofs outside told of his escape. He had gone, but not till Bert had seen one thing that registered itself indelibly on his mind.

The stranger had drawn and shot with his left hand.