Dry Wash and see if they can't be located."
"How'll you locate 'em? You don't know who to look for. Better pass it up and keep on to the ranch with Hank and me."
"Tell my uncle I'll see him later," Ruthven answered, getting up and starting southward. "Maybe nothing will come of this, but I think we ought to try to do something."
"Well, if you've got the bit in your teeth I won't try to head you off; but say, I'll wait here while Hank drives you back to town."
"The walk will do me good. After being knocked around in the wreck I'll feel all the better for limbering up. So long!"
He started on with a swift, steady stride, and Martin and Doubleday watched him until he was nearly out of sight.
"And that's the cimiroon who trimmed Big Eph!" muttered Doubleday. "Too blamed bad he can't get along with his daddy, and is more or less of a black sheep."
"I'm not takin* much stock in that black-sheep talk," said Martin. "I reckon Ruthven is human and has his failin's, same's the rest of us; but he's got nerve. And build!' Say, Hank, did you look at the build of him? How'd you like to have him tackle you in a football scrimmage, eh? The old man said he was picked for an All-America Eleven. I don't think Barton is down on him much on account of the fuss he had with his father."
While the two cowboys continued to talk and to load the freight into the buckboard, Ruthven proceeded in the direction of town. He had not many miles to travel and was not a great while in covering them, but it was nearly two o'clock when he turned in at Grandy's store.
Grandy, of course, was surprised. "Didn't you start for the Musselshell?" he inquired.
"Yes," replied Ruthven, "but I came back. Horses ran away and strung the wagon along the road. I waited until another rig had come for Martin, and then I headed this way."
"Got all vou wanted of ranch life so quick?" said Grandy, with a knowing grin.
Ruthven paid no attention to the remark. "Have you seen any strangers in town, Grandy?" he inquired.
"One," was his reply. "He's over to the hotel now."
"Much obliged," said the other, and left the store.
Could it be possible that the stranger was Weasel Morrison? If so, then the fugitive crook was playing a bold hand to come into Dry-Wash and stop openly at the hotel. But that was the character of the man.
"Stranger putting up here, Atkins?" he asked of the hotel proprietor, who was sitting on the porch.
"Yes—Arthur Robinson, of Bismarck, North Dakota. He's in his room now, the room you had. I thought you had gone to Barton's ranch to"
Ruthven did not linger to explain why he had not continued on to the ranch, but hurried through the hotel office and up the stairs to the room he had occupied the night before. He was ready to take Morrison by surprise, if the stranger really proved to be the crook masquerading under a fictitious name. He rapped on the door.
"What's wanted?" called a voice—not Morrison's voice, but another even more familiar.
Ruthven stifled an exclamation of astonishment, and turned the knob. The door was unlocked and flew open. A hatchet-faced man sprang up from a chair and stared in amaze.
"Ruthven, by thunder!" he gasped. "Lewis Ruthven, of all men in the world!"
