Inside of a quarter of an hour the sheriff had found out all he wanted to know about the poker game, Cullison's financial difficulties, and the news that Luck had liquidated his poker debt since breakfast time. He had turned the simple cattleman's thoughts inside out, was aware of the doubt Billie had scarcely admitted to himself, and knew all he did except the one point Luck had asked him not to mention. Moreover, he had talked so casually that his visitor had no suspicion of what he was driving at. Mackenzie attempted a little sleuthing of his own. "This hold-up fellow kind of slipped one over on you last night, Bolt." "Maybe so, and maybe not." "Got a clew, have you?" "Oh, yes--yes." The sheriff looked straight at him. "I've a notion his initials are L. C." Billie felt himself flushing. "What makes you think that, Nick?" Bolt walked to a cupboard and unlocked it. His back was toward the cattleman, but the latter could see him take something from a shelf. Turning quickly, the sheriff tossed a hat upon the table. "Ever see this before?" Mac picked it up. His fingers were not quite steady, for a great dread drenched his heart like a rush of icy water. Upon that gray felt hat with the pinched crown was stamped the individuality--and the initials--of Luck Cullison. "Don't know as I recognize it," he lied, not very readily. "Not to know it. Why?" "Thought perhaps you might know it. The hold-up dropped it while getting away." Mackenzie's eyes flinched. "Dropped it. How was that?" "A man happened to come along San Miguel street just as the robber swung to his horse. He heard the cries of the men inside, guessed what was doing, and exchanged shots with the miscreant. He shot this hat off the fellow's head." "The _Sentinel_ didn't tell any such a story." "I didn't give that detail to the editor." "Who was the man that shot the robber?" "Cass Fendrick." "But he didn't claim to recognize the hold-up?" Mackenzie forced himself to ask this in spite of his fears. "Not for certain." "Then he--he had a guess." "Yes, Mac. He guessed a man whose initials are the same as those in that hat." "Who do you mean, Nick?" "I don't need to tell you that. You know who." "If you mean Luck Cullison, it's a damned lie," exploded the cattleman. He was furious with himself, for he felt now that he had been unsuspectingly helping to certify the suspicions of the sheriff. Like an idiot, he had let out much that told heavily against his friend. "I hope so." "Cass Fendrick is not on good terms with him. We all know that. Luck has got him in a hole. I wouldn't put it a bit above Cass to lie if he thought it would hurt Luck. Tell you it's a damned conspiracy. Man, can't you see that?" "What about this hat, with the two holes shot through the rim?" "Sho! We all wear hats just like that. Look at mine." Billie held it out eagerly. "Has yours an L. C. stamped in the sweat band?" Bolt asked with a smile.