Ted was brooding over the appearance of Farnsworth, and the startling events which followed, and particularly the crime at Rodeo, of which the young fellow had fallen under suspicion.

Ted believed that Farnsworth was innocent of the crime.

But his flight from the town, and the question he had put to Ted when they met in the road, as to whether Ted had heard the news from Rodeo, were enough to convict him in the mind of any person prone to suspicion.

But Ted looked at matters of this sort differently than most people. In the first place, his experience had taught him that actions which seemed most suspicious often proved most innocent.

That Farnsworth knew of the murder of Helen Mowbray before he quitted Rodeo his question to Ted left no doubt, and the shadow of suspicion under which he had lived was reason enough for him to leave the town before its discovery. He knew the dangerous temper of the people, and that it would take very little to arouse them against him, and precipitate them into a lynching, with himself as the central figure.

Ted had heard that Fancy Farnsworth was the worst man in Arizona, and that he had the most ungovernable temper, the quickest eye, and swiftest "draw" of a gun in the Territory.

He was a gambler against whom nobody seemed to be able to cope, for he invariably won. It had been said that he was not a straight gambler, but those who said it did so only once, as they were incapable of saying it twice, for by that time they had been shot full of holes by the card sharper.

Why it was that Farnsworth always escaped punishment at the hands of the authorities no one knew, except that they lacked the nerve to force prosecution against him, and that he invariably had a good excuse for killing a man; at least, one that made good in that rough country, where every man was of a size because all carried revolvers.

But even while Ted believed that Farnsworth was innocent of the murder of Miss Mowbray, he felt that some day he and the dashing young fellow would meet on the battlefield as enemies.

But it was the strange resemblance between him and Major Caruthers that affected Ted more than anything else, and he often wondered that the major had not noticed it himself.

Major Caruthers found Ted on the veranda turning these things over in his mind after breakfast. Coming to his side, the old gentleman threw his arm around Ted's shoulder and said:

"Ted, I'm rather worried about that young chap Dickson, or Farnsworth, whichever he is. I was greatly attracted to him, and intended to invite him to stay with us several days, when those deputy marshals entered and accused him of a crime that horrifies me. Somehow, I feel that he is guilty, although I want to believe in his innocence, as you so bravely advocated when we all were too cowardly to do so. But if he was innocent, why did he not stay and face his accusers, and go back to Rodeo with the marshals and prove himself innocent?"

"He never would have got as far as Rodeo," said Ted quietly.

"Why not? He was under arrest and in the guard and custody of four deputy marshals, officers of the United States."

"They would have prevailed no more than if they had been dummies, which I strongly suspect they were."

"Um, how is that?"

"They were sent out from Rodeo as marshals, but the mob that would have met Farnsworth at the outskirts of the town, to hang him, was the real boss. Those marshals would no more dare defy that mob than they would fly. In the first place, they were not of the real stuff, as was proved by their conduct when they entered your house and saw Farnsworth in the middle of the floor and dared not go to him."

"Well, I'm glad he got away, but I am sorry he had to steal your pony to do it."

"That's all right about the pony. I'm betting I'll get it back one of these days. And, besides, there was nothing else for him to do."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the major. "That was the neatest thing I ever saw, the way he got into that saddle and deliberately put that pony at the window."

"It sure was nervy," said Ted, with a reminiscent smile.

"Wasn't it the most dramatic thing you ever saw? I can see it yet. Farnsworth dodging those deputies and their bullets, and before any one knew what his plan was, leaping upon the pony and jumping through the glass. By Jove, it was fine. I never was so excited in my life."

"It certainly was very dramatic. Almost like a thing one would see in the theater."

"Yes, but a lot more exciting, because it was the real thing. By the way, Ted, there was something about that young fellow that I cannot explain to myself. I was quite strangely affected when he took me by the hand. And every time I looked at him it gave me a feeling as if he was somehow mixed up in my life, or would be in the future."

"That is strange. I wonder who he is. His name is not Dickson, nor is it Farnsworth. Of course, there is a mystery behind him somewhere, and he has a name which he is concealing. Suppose we take a look through his effects. He had a saddlebag in which there may be something by which we can identify him."

"Very well. I don't believe it would be unfair to him to do so. You know, we might be able to help him if we know his real name and address."

They went into the room which had been assigned to Farnsworth, but which he had had no opportunity to occupy.

In one corner they found his saddle, a very ornamental and expensive piece of horse furniture, trimmed with silver and made of the most expensive leather.

Beside it lay a bag which could be fastened to the cantle of the saddle.

It fastened with a snap lock, which was easily opened, and then Ted, at a nod from the major, began to turn out its contents.

First came a pair of silver-mounted hairbrushes and several toilet articles, showing that even in the desert young Farnsworth did not neglect his personal appearance. There were some clean shirts and handkerchiefs, and in the bottom of the bag another leather case.

"If he has anything by which he may be identified, it is in here," said Ted. "But this is locked. Shall I force it?"

"I believe you'd better," answered the major.

"I don't care much about doing it," said Ted, "but as it is to help him I suppose I might as well."

The major nodded, and with the blade of his knife Ted soon had the bag open.

The first thing he came to was a photograph of a beautiful woman, at which he looked intently for a few moments.

It seemed to him that he had seen her, or some one very like her, somewhere before.

Then he passed it over to the major, and reached his hand into the bag once more.

Suddenly he was interrupted by a startled cry, in which there was a tone of pain and surprise, from the major.

Looking up, he saw that the major was as white as a sheet, and that his hand trembled violently.

"What is it?" Ted asked, striding to the major's side.

But Major Caruthers was too shaken by emotion to reply at once.

He continued to stare at the picture with devouring eyes, his face alternately flushing and paling. He was gasping as if he would speak, but the words would not come.

"Do you know her?" asked Ted gently.

The major nodded his head for reply.

"What else do you find?" he managed to ask finally.

Ted emptied the contents of the bag upon the bed.

Among them was a package of old letters carefully tied.

"Look at those letters," commanded the major hoarsely.

Ted untied the string, and took one letter from the pack and opened it. It had been opened and folded so many times that it was with difficulty that Ted could open it now without having it fall to pieces.

"You read it before I do," said the major, who was suffering from a great, nervous strain, and showed it in his face and trembling hand.

Ted spread it on the bed and bent over it.

In the upper left-hand corner was a faded crest of a tower, over which was a coronet.

"My dear, wandering boy," the letter began, "I do not know where you are, or if you are well and alive, or are in trouble, for I have not heard from you for many months. I am sending this at random into that great America in the hope that it may reach you some day to tell you that your mother is constantly thinking of you. Your brother Jack is still in India with his regiment, but will soon retire and come home. Your sister Helen and her husband are I know not where. Mowbray turned out very badly, as your father believed he would, and he had to run from his creditors, and the enemies he had made through his dishonest practices. I don't know where they are, but it is my belief that they have gone to America. I wonder if you will ever run across them? If you do, tell Helen to leave the beast and come home, and both her father and I will forgive, and she can take her place here as if she had never met him. And this leads me to tell you that your father has greatly changed since you left us, and has even said that he was sorry for his harshness, and wished you had stayed with us. We are very lonely with all of our children away from us. Come back to your mother, and all will be different."

There were many expressions of mother love in the letter, which was signed and dated from The Towers, Huntingdon, several years before.

After reading the letter Ted passed it to the major without comment, and walked to the window, that he might not be a witness to his emotion.

He was now very sure that by the strangest of circumstances Major Caruthers had come across a bit of personal history, and that it was giving him a heart-tearing experience.

In a moment he heard the sound of a sob behind him, followed by others, which, however, subsided gradually, and he heard his name called.

Ted came to where the major sat on the side of the bed, holding the photograph in his hand.

"It is the picture of my sister," he said quietly, for he was now the master of his emotions.

"Then Farnsworth is your brother," said Ted.

"Yes, my brother, poor chap," answered the major, gulping down a sob.

"It is strange, very strange," muttered Ted, almost to himself. "I felt sure you were related, there was such a strong resemblance between you."

"I didn't notice it. Why didn't you speak of it?"

"Farnsworth knew that you were his brother, and I have no doubt he would have made himself known to you had he not been compelled to flee before the deputy marshals. I know that he was deeply affected at meeting you, and saw that he hesitated to make himself known."

"I didn't know him. I had not seen Fred since he was a little boy, when I went into the service. Then he went away to school, and I to India. I am much older than he, so we did not meet. When I returned to England from India he had disappeared on account of a foolish row with our father. Our only sister, Helen, had married a scamp against the wishes of the family, and had left England also. Shortly after that both our parents died, and I came to America with the intention of finding both my sister and brother, and this is how it has turned out."

Tears were coursing down the major's pale cheeks.

"Don't you see how it is?" he asked, holding out the photograph to Ted.

Suddenly it dawned upon Ted, and he took the photograph and gazed at it eagerly.

It was Helen Mowbray, the sister of the major and of Farnsworth, or Fred Caruthers, to give him his real name—the woman who had been strangled to death in her house at Rodeo.

This was a shock indeed.

The complications which had arisen in these few hours were sufficient to shatter the strongest nerves, and Ted himself trembled a little at the possibilities unfolded by this unforeseen and unexpected knowledge, while it entirely unnerved the major, and left him as weak as a child.

What was to be done? It was not likely that Fred Caruthers could be found at once. That he knew that it was his sister who had been murdered, and that he was charged with the crime, would be sufficient to spur him on and on, his brain and heart filled with horror. And that he had just found his brother, who might have given him all the moral support he needed at such a time, only to be driven from him by the fear of mob law, which he knew would give him no chance whatever for his life, was an additional sting.

The major sat on the edge of the bed with drooping head, holding in one hand the letter from his dead mother, and in the other the photograph of his murdered sister.

He was too dazed with the suddenness of the shock with which the revelation had come to him to stir.

Ted saw that he must be roused from this immediately.

"Come," he said, placing his hand gently, on the major's shoulder, "we must do something at once."

"What can we do?" asked the major, in a stifled voice.

"In the first place, we must ride to Rodeo with all speed. Do not forget that your sister lies there dead, and that it is your duty to care for her."

"Of course. I had forgotten. All the ghosts of the past crowded in upon me until I forgot my duty to the dead. We will go at once. Will you take charge of things? I am not able yet to do so."

"Certainly. Leave it all to me."

Ted left the major with his relics of the dead and the revelations of the present to compose himself, while he went out to make arrangements for the ride to Rodeo.

Ted knew the difficulties and prejudices they would meet when they got to Rodeo, and feared that before the unpleasant details attending the burial of the dead woman were finished they might clash with the authorities or the townspeople.

Therefore, he decided that they should go well able to defend their rights, and, calling the boys together, he told them as briefly as possible the story of the major and his newly found brother and sister, as the reader knows it.

"Now, fellows, we must help the major straighten out this tangle, bury the dead, defend the innocent, and punish the guilty," he said gravely. "Arm yourselves and saddle, ready to take the road to Rodeo as quickly as you can."