“Mebbyso. He’s ’er whelp. He’d do a heap ter land on Nate somehow. I’m bettin’----” A pounding of hoofs out in front, suddenly brought to a stop, a concerted rush of the men around the hotel toward the hitching pole, and a wild voice suddenly lifted, caused the old trapper to break off his remarks. The voice, husky with excitement, floated into the office through the open front door. “Where’s a doctor? I want a doctor on the jump!” Buffalo Bill and old Nomad, at this startling summons, left their chairs and went to the door. A cowboy, his horse lathered and panting painfully, was at a halt before the hotel. A crowd of curious men surrounded him. “I’ll go fer a doctor,” said Sim Pierce, and hustled off without waiting for further news. “What’s the matter?” asked the scout. “I was lopin’ inter town with a pard,” replied the cowboy, “when we found Jake Phelps’ hoss, without no saddle, runnin’ to’rds ther ranch. A mile farder we found Jake hisself, layin’ face down in the trail. He come in arter the pay-rool money, an’ the money was gone. Jake was about gone, too, an’ he may be clean gone by now. I left Jeems with him, while I hit the breeze fer a sawbones. We gotter have the doc in er hurry, an’ mebby it won’t do no good at that.” This news hit the scout between the eyes. Already the bystanders were exchanging significant glances. The scout grabbed Nomad’s arm and pulled him back into the office. “This looks bad, pard,” he whispered. “Ye don’t think Nate had anythin’ ter do with what happened ter Jake Phelps?” gasped the old trapper. “Certainly not, but there are others who’ll think so--after what happened between Nate and Jake Phelps here in Hackamore. Take my word for it, Bloom will be the first one to voice the suspicion.” CHAPTER XXV. SIM PIERCE BRINGS NEWS. The cowboy jumped from his weary horse, loosened the cinches to give the animal’s lungs greater freedom, and came into the office to wait for the doctor. The cowboy was excited, and tramped up and down, rolling a cigarette. “You’re from Hank Phelps’ ranch?” asked the scout. “That’s me,” was the answer. “My name’s Quiller, an’ I’ve worked fer Hank for two years. He’s all right, Hank is.” “How was Jake Phelps hurt?” “Looks like he’d been hit on the head with a club er somethin’.” “Then he wasn’t shot?” “Not as Jeems an’ me could see. But I didn’t tarry long arter we found Jake; I jest hustled right in arter the doc. There was some queer things about Jake’s fix. The feller that swiped the pay-roll money took Jake’s saddle along. What’s this I hear about Jake’s havin’ a row with Nate Dunbar afore leavin’ fer home?” “They had some words, Quiller,” answered the scout. “I’m wonderin’--I’m wonderin’----” Quiller was leaning against the counter, holding a lighted match to his cigarette.