The sheriff relapsed into sombre silence. There was a troubled look in the keen eyes that the Texan did not understand. Fraser waited for the officer to develop the object of his visit, and it was set down to his credit. A weaker man would have rushed at once into excuses and explanations. But in the prisoner's quiet, steely eyes, in the close-shut mouth and salient jaw, in the set of his well-knit figure, Sheriff Brandt found small room for weakness. Whoever he was, this man was one who could hold his own in the strenuous game of life. “My friend,” said the sheriff abruptly, “you and I are up against it. There is going to be trouble in town to-night.” The level, gray eyes looked questioningly at the sheriff. “You butted into grief a-plenty when you lined up with the cattlemen in this sheep war. Who do you ride for?” “I'm not riding for anybody,” responded Fraser. “I just arrived from Texas. Didn't even know there was a feud on.” Brandt laughed incredulously. “That will sound good to a jury, if your case ever comes to that stage. How do you expect to explain Billy Faulkner's death?” “Is there any proof I killed him?” “Some. You were recognized by two men last night while you were trying to escape. You carried a rifle that uses the same weight bullet as the one we dug out of Billy. When you attacked Tom Peake you dropped that rifle, and in your getaway hadn't time to pick it up again. That is evidence enough for a Wyoming jury, in the present state of public opinion.” “What do you mean by 'in the present state of public opinion'?” “I mean that this whole country is pretty nearly solid against the Cedar Mountain cattlemen, since they killed Campeau and Jennings in that raid on their camp. You know what I mean as well as I do.” Fraser did not argue the point. He remembered now having seen an account of the Squaw Creek raid on a sheep camp, ending in a battle that had resulted in the death of two men and the wounding of three others. He had been sitting in a hotel at San Antonio, Texas, when he had read the story over his after-dinner cigar. The item had not seemed even remotely connected with himself. Now he was in prison at Gimlet Butte, charged with murder, and unless he was very much mistaken the sheriff was hinting at a lynching. The Squaw Creek raid had come very near to him, for he knew the fight he had interrupted last night had grown out of it. “What do you mean by trouble to-night?” he asked, in an even, conversational tone. The sheriff looked directly at him. “You're a man, I reckon. That calls for the truth. Men are riding up and down this country to-day, stirring up sentiment against your outfit. To-night the people will gather in town, and the jail will be attacked.” “And you?” “I'll uphold the law as long as I can.”