“Guess I’ll report to the boss,” he called out, as he picked up the saddle and moved away toward the ranch home. “Look out for yourself,” shouted one of the group. “Old Thurston will be madder than hell.” But it was terror, selfish terror, not anger nor grief, that came into Ben Thurston’s eyes when he saw the saddle horn smeared with fresh blood and scarred by a bullet. “My God, and I believed Don Manuel was dead,” he whispered in a hoarse voice to Leach Sharkey. The two had been, as usual, in close companionship; Sharkey reading a weekly newspaper, while the employer he was paid to protect, restlessly, as was his wont, paced the room. “Disappeared and dead ain’t exactly the same thing,” replied the sleuth as he critically examined the saddle. “And there may be another explanation to this. What about Dick Willoughby?” “Yes, yes, Dick Willoughby,” eagerly assented the trembling man. “You saw them quarreling the other day—they hate each other like poison,” continued Sharkey. “Where’s Dick Willoughby now?” he enquired, with a swift glance at the cowboy. “Good Lord, that’s just where he is—searching the canyons below the forest for mavericks,” was the reply. Sharkey smiled blandly; the informant looked disappointed, yet confident. “I couldn’t have believed that of Dick,” he added, regretfully. “Well, clear out now,” said Sharkey. “Mr. Thurston and I will want to be alone. You say Jack Rover and two others have gone out to search? Well, we can’t do more till they bring us in some news. Let us know at once when they return.” Ben Thurston had collapsed onto a chair, then raised himself, and was leaning eagerly forward now. He met Sharkey’s glance of hardly concealed contempt. “That’s right,” he murmured, “It has been Dick Willoughby’s work. I knew Don Manuel was dead.” “And what about your boy?” asked the sleuth curtly. “Oh, yes, poor Marshall! I forgot about him. But perhaps he’s only wounded. We’ll send to Bakersfield for a doctor.” And he half rose from his seat. “You’ll just wait patiently here,” replied Sharkey, as he pushed Thurston back into his chair. “All that is possible for the present is being done.” And the rôles were now reversed—it was the bodyguard who slowly and meditatively paced the room. Meanwhile Dick Willoughby had ceased from his ruminations, and was beginning to take practical steps for getting Marshall’s body home. He had no thought of coroner’s regulations that a corpse should be left undisturbed till the proper official investigation had been made. He had got his riata ready, and was just going to sling the body across his saddle and tie it there, when the rhythmic thud of clattering hoofs smote upon his ear. Thank God! Help was coming. There would be others to assist him in his gruesome task. So Dick patiently waited while the sound grew nearer and nearer, until at last the three cowboys dashed round the bend.