There was anxiety in his voice. Ever since he had been fighting the cattle barons, he had never known when or how the lightning was going to strike. Very little was needed to arouse his apprehensions. “I was in a hurry, Perry,” the scout answered. “Nate,” and he turned to the younger of the two ranchers, “what did you do on the way back from town?” “Do?” echoed Dunbar; “why, I just rode. What else was there to do? I picked up that stray calf on the way, and snaked it along for the last mile. You’ve got me guessing, Buffalo Bill. What’s gone crossways?” “Did you ride the Star-A trail all the way?” asked the scout. “Didn’t I tell you I would?” “Yes. You didn’t follow Jake Phelps, did you?” Protest flashed in Nate’s eyes. “What’s the use of asking me such a question, amigo?” he demanded. “A promise to you is a promise. I haven’t seen Jake Phelps since he rode away from the front of the hotel.” “I could have made affidavit to that!” exclaimed the scout, with a feeling of relief. “But what’s this all about?” put in Perry. “Well, Jake Phelps was badly hurt on the way from Hackamore to the H-P ranch. Two cowboys, coming into town from the ranch, found his horse, racing for home without a saddle. A little farther along the trail they found Nate, saddle and money gone, sprawled out on the ground.” Perturbation was written large in the faces of Dunbar and Perry. They stared at the scout and then at each other. For a moment no one spoke. “Was--was he killed?” asked Nate finally, moistening his dry lips with his tongue. “No,” said the scout, “but he was in pretty bad shape. The doctor doesn’t know whether he’ll pull through or not. The worst part of it is, he’s unconscious and can’t tell what happened to him. The longer he remains unconscious, Nate,” the scout answered kindly, “the worse it becomes for you. Of course, none of us believes you had anything to do with what happened, but Bloom is no friend of yours, and Bloom is with the H-P outfit now.” Again was there a silence. Nate threw a look toward the house where his bride of a few days was busy with her household work. His lips twitched. Presently he pulled his revolver from its holster and handed it out to Buffalo Bill. “Examine that, amigo,” he begged. “Every chamber is loaded--not a bullet missing. I haven’t touched the gun since I put it up in the office of the Delmonico Hotel.” The scout waved the weapon away. “Your bare word is enough for me,” said he, “and for the rest of your friends. Anyhow, Nate, it wasn’t a bullet that caused the trouble for Jake Phelps.” “What was it?” “The handle of a quirt, or a club of some sort.” “I hadn’t a quirt with me,” protested Nate. “As for a club----” He changed ends with the revolver and looked at the handgrip absently. “This,” said he, “is the only club I could have used. Does it look as though I had used it?” He held it up.