Doc Hollis’ house was at the far end of town. It was small and set quite a way back from the street. Shortly after dark that night, Allen pushed open the gate and walked up the path. On the porch he stood and listened for a moment. He had no reason to fear a trap, but his life had taught him the cautiousness of a wolf. He waited for a moment and then knocked on the door. Doc Hollis opened it, and Allen entered the small living room where he found Bill McAllister before him.

“Doc, this is the gent I tol’ yuh about,” the old horse wrangler said bluntly.

Allen shook hands with Doc and grinned a greeting. Doc Hollis was a small, rotund man with a smooth, bald head. He stared in puzzled wonder at the outlaw. It seemed impossible that this smiling, freckle-faced boy could be the most notorious gunman of all time.

Allen seemed to read his thoughts, for he said with a broad, loose grin: “I’m sure me.”

The doctor chuckled, and Bill McAllister’s leathery face broke into a fleeting smile.

“What yuh aimin’ to do?” Doc asked curiously.

“Postmaster a friend of yourn?” Allen countered.

“Frank Cragg? He sure is,” Doc answered.

“Do yuh figger he’d fake a letter—postmarks an’ the whole thing—an’ make believe it just arrived from New Mex for Squint Lane?” Allen asked.

“Reckon he would. Why?”

“Well, if he tol’ folks he had a letter which looked important for Squint, mebbe one of Squint’s friends would put a new address on it, an’ then we’d know where to look for Squint,” Allen said, grinning.

“I’m bettin’ there’s three or four of Spur’s gunmen who knows where Squint’s holdin’ out,” Doc cried excitedly.

In case the letter was opened by some friends, they carefully wrote a long epistle from a supposed friend of Squint’s in New Mexico.

“Now, Doc, there’s one other thing yuh can do. Did yuh ever stop to figger that if Slivers was blottin’ Double R cows to Double B, it’s darn funny that after he lights out there wasn’t enough cows to sell an’ pay off a measly eight hundred what he owed to ol’ Miser Jimpson.”

“Darn me—that’s true,” Bill McAllister growled.

“Sure is—an’ I never thought about it,” Doc commented.

“Then yuh start other folks a-thinkin’. Sorta hints that the gent what framed Slivers was the one what ran off his Double B cows.”

Doc persuaded Allen to wait for them; there was no use for him to run the risk of being recognized on the streets. Doc Hollis and McAllister would visit the post office and arrange about the letter, and then they would all have supper with Mrs. Hart, Slivers’ mother.

As the two walked toward the door, Allen stopped them.

“When did this rustlin’ start?” he asked.

“About six-seven months ago. Old man Reed began to suspect some one was makin’ free with his cows. He started the boys ridin’ night herd. Pretty soon a bunch of ’em runs into a gang of rustlers, an’ two of ’em, Bill Steel an’ ‘Big-foot’ gets downed. The old man knows then the rustlers is strong an’ workin’ hard, so he sends down to the border for a bunch of gunmen. But the rustlin’ goes right on—we has several night battles. Then Slivers is supposed to down Iky Small an’ lights for the hills.” McAllister concluded and cut off a large piece of black plug, which he thrust into his mouth.

“But the rustlin’ goes right on?” Allen asked.

“Correct. Then the ol’ man gets plumb crazy, ’cause his cows is bein’ run off wholesale. A little later he gets downed,” Doc cut in.

“Any rustlin’ since then?”

“The boys ain’t reported nothin’ suspicious, but there ain’t a hell of a lot of Double R cows left,” Bill McAllister said, after a moment’s thought.

“When did this here Spur Treadwell person turn up?” Allen asked.

“Now, look here, Jim, yuh’re barkin’ up the wrong tree,” Bill said warmly. “Spur ain’t got nothin’ to do with this rustlin’. ’Cause why? ’Cause didn’t he down them rustlers what gunned the old man? No gent could get away with a thing like that, ’cause tother gents workin’ for him would sure quit.”

“That’s sure correct,” Doc said gravely. “An’ didn’t Spur, after John Reed was killed, go tearin’ over to Boston Jack’s outfit ready to tear it apart. An’ he sure would have if he’d found anythin’ wrong. An’ Sandy McGill dropped one of Boston’s men. No, sir, Spur ain’t in cahoots with Boston or he could never get away with a thing like that.”

“Jim, yuh’re sure wrong about Spur,” Bill insisted. “I ain’t sayin’ he didn’t frame Slivers ’cause of Dot, but he ain’t no rustler,” Bill insisted.

Jim Allen had far more knowledge of the duplicity of which some men are capable than the other two. It was hard for him to understand how any men could be so blind. He looked at them quizzically for a moment.

“Yuh see ol’ man Reed after he was shot?” he asked unexpectedly.

“Sure—we both see him,” Doc replied. “They sent for me when he was shot, but when I reached the ranch Spur tol’ me he was dead. I was goin’ to look at him, but Spur says I couldn’t do no good an’ for me to tend to Dot.”

“Then yuh didn’t see him?” Allen asked sharply, with a touch of acute disappointment in his voice.

“Yeh, I did. Me an’ Bill, here, was his oldest friends, so we sneaked in to sorta say good-by all by ourselves, late that night,” Doc said sadly.

“An’ I’m bettin’ yuh both was mad when yuh see how he was shot to pieces.”

“We sure swore loud and plenty,” McAllister growled.

Doc Hollis stared at the outlaw, and then took two quick steps toward him.

“Most folks don’t know he was shot up bad. How’d yuh know?” he asked, as a quick suspicion entered his mind.

Allen’s face held a hopeless expression as he met the angry eyes of the older man.

“Yuh thinkin’, ’cause I claims to be a friend of Slivers—an’ as Spur says he was there, mebbe I was, too, when the old man got his?” he asked sarcastically. “That sorta proves yuh can think, but if yuh’ll recollect that Spur is now Dot’s guardian, mebbe yuh’ll see what I see.”

Doc Hollis looked from Allen to Bill McAllister. His face wore a puzzled expression. Slowly this changed to one of startled wonder and then to furious anger.

“The thing was so complete I never thinks. Damn the skulkin’ coyote! Don’t yuh see, Bill? Think! The old man couldn’t write that will after he was downed!” Doc cried excitedly.

“Hell! I sure does now—but them dead rustlers—the thing was so pat,” McAllister mumbled.

The moment when full realization of how their old friend had been foully murdered reached their minds, Allen had all he could do to keep them from dashing out and trying to exact a summary revenge. He pointed out that a hasty move would spoil everything and, little by little, calmed the two older men.

A few minutes later, the two walked out and headed toward the post office. Arriving there, they told the postmaster everything. They got an envelope and addressed it to Squint Lane. The mail came in on the stage at seven that night, and the postmaster promised to show the letter to all who came for their mail.

“Bill, yuh an’ me an’ the rest of the folks in this town is plumb blind,” Doc said sadly.

“We sure is, but Jim Allen ain’t. Do yuh know, Doc, I bet there’s a dozen men in this town what would give an arm to get a shot at his back, an’ he goes roun’ grinning like a schoolboy,” Bill remarked.

They stopped and picked up Allen at Doc’s house and continued on to Mrs. Hart’s little cottage.

She was a short, motherly looking woman with bright-blue eyes and graying sandy hair. “Lands sake, what’s the matter with the boy?” she asked.

“I got a toothache,” Allen replied.

At that she bustled about him like a hen with a lone chick. Allen played the part of the suffering boy until he caught sight of two large, brown pies on the kitchen table, when he instantly lost all interest in everything but those works of art.

“Pies! Well, I’m jiggered if it ain’t pies!” He added greedily: “Yuh aimin’ to give us a piece of that?”

“After yuh eat, yes,” Mrs. Hart replied with a smile.

“I hate to waste space,” Allen said regretfully. The two other men chuckled, and the woman shook her head.

“Yuh’re just like my boy—he was always crazy for sweets.” Her words brought bitter memories to her, and her eyes clouded.

Allen pecked at his food, and his unabashed greediness, as he cast longing glances at the pies, made the woman momentarily forget her grief at being separated from her son. At last, she could no longer stand his wistful, greedy eyes, and arose and cut him a big piece of pie. He gobbled it down before she could regain her seat. With a laugh, she cut him a second piece. As she handed it to him, there came a knock on the door. The others started, but Allen continued to eat his pie.

Mrs. Hart opened the door, and the postmaster entered at a run, bubbling with excitement.

“It sure worked. ‘Lefty’ Simms takes that letter an’ sticks it into another envelope an’ addresses it. I fishes it out. Shucks, I suppose I robbed the mails, but here she is,” he cried, as he held out the letter triumphantly.

Bill McAllister grabbed the letter, glanced at it, and then handed it to Allen, who read the address and grinned gleefully.

“Shucks! He’s way down at Brushtown, along the border,” McAllister said in disappointment.

“But Brushtown ain’t far from Cannondale, an’ I got——”

“Whoopee, I get yuh! Yuh got friends down there,” Bill McAllister interrupted, “I betcha yuh do have, after what yuh done——”

At Allen’s warning glance, the old-timer brought his sentence to a close with a series of coughs.

“What yuh goin’ to do?” Doc asked.

“Me? I’m aimin’ to eat another piece of pie, if Mrs. Hart will give it to me, then I’m goin’ to ride to Three Roads Junction an’ send a telegram,” Allen said carelessly.

Mrs. Hart hastily arose and cut Allen a double portion of pie. The postmaster stared at Allen with protruding eyes. He was too overcome to speak. He nudged Bill McAllister and pointed to Allen. The old horse wrangler nodded in reply.

Doc Hollis volunteered to furnish Allen with a fast horse and then hastened away to saddle it. Five minutes later, he was back again. Allen finished the pie, thanked Mrs. Hart, walked outside, mounted the waiting horse, and rode away into the night.

“He sure does things casuallike,” the doctor said admiringly.

“It’s sure him,” the postmaster said in awe.

“Yeh, but don’t go talkin’ loud,” Bill McAllister warned.

“What is it? Who is that boy?” Ma Hart asked.

“Never yuh mind that,” Doc told her seriously. “Yuh get down on your knees this night an’ pray if yuh want to see that boy of yourn again—pray as yuh never prayed afore that nothin’ happens to the White Wolf to-night.”

“Who is he? The White Wolf? What could happen to him?” the woman asked, bewildered.

Doc pointed to a picture of a man on a white horse that hung over the mantelpiece.

“Read me that there title!” he said.

Wondering, the woman read: “I saw a man on a white horse, and his name was Death!”

“That’s him!”

The other two gravely nodded their heads. The woman glanced from the picture to the three solemn faces and then back to the picture again.

Late that night Bill McAllister and Doc Hollis laughed softly to themselves. The rumor they had started was spreading like wildfire. On their way home, at least three friends stopped them and said practically the same thing:

“Yuh know, I been thinkin’. If Slivers Hart was rustlin’ cows, how come there warn’t no cows on the ranch when the sheriff seized it? It’s funny about the killin’ of John Reed——” They all would go that far and then nod as if they could say more if they were so inclined.

“Folks is sure startin’ to think,” McAllister chuckled.

The following morning Bill McAllister was with the cavvy when Allen trotted down a slope and rode toward him.

“Yuh send it all right?” the old man asked eagerly.

“Yeh.” Allen slipped to the ground and unsaddled his horse, which was drooping from fatigue. “There is two things I wants yuh to do. Don’t tell her any more than yuh have to—’cause she might act hopeful an’ give her hand away—but tell Dot to insult Spur Treadwell—call him names, say he ain’t nothin’ but a bull of a man an’ that she’s plumb disgusted with him. Then I wants yuh to make me night wrangler.”

With that, even before Bill McAllister could ask the reason for these requests, Allen curled up beneath a clump of brush and was asleep.