Being anxious to show the strangers every attention and having a keen recollection of the brand of gun-play commanded by Mr. Cassidy, he planned a smoother method of procedure and one calculated to permit him to enjoy the pleasures of a good old age. Mr. Travennes knew that horse thieves were regarded as social enemies, that the necessary proof of their guilt was the finding of stolen animals in their possession, that death was the penalty and that every man, whether directly concerned or not, regarded, himself as judge, jury and executioner. He had several acquaintances who were bound to him by his knowledge of crimes they had committed and would could not refuse his slightest wish. Even if they had been free agents they were not above causing the death of an innocent man. Mr. Travennes, feeling very self-satisfied at his cleverness, arranged to have the proof placed where it would do the most harm and intended to take care of the rest by himself. Mr. Connors, feeling much refreshed and very hungry, arose at daylight the next morning, and dressing quickly, started off to feed and water the horses. After having several tilts with the landlord about the bucket he took his departure toward the corral at the rear. Peering through the gate, he could hardly believe his eyes. He climbed over it and inspected the animals at close range, and found that those which he and his friend had ridden for the last two months were not to be seen, but in their places were two better animals, which concerned him greatly. Being fair and square himself, he could not understand the change and sought enlightenment of his more imaginative and suspicious friend. “Hey, Hopalong!” he called, “come out here an' see what th' blazes has happened!” Mr. Cassidy stuck his auburn head out of the wounded shutter and complacently surveyed his companion. Then he saw the horses and looked hard. “Quit yore foolin', yu old cuss,” he remarked pleasantly, as he groped around behind him with his feet, searching for his boots. “Anybody would think yu was a little boy with yore fool jokes. Ain't yu ever goin' to grow up?” “They've got our bronch,” replied Mr. Connors in an injured tone. “Honest, I ain't kiddin' yu,” he added for the sake of peace. “Who has?” Came from the window, followed immediately by, “Yu've got my boots!” “I ain't--they're under th' bunk,” contradicted and explained Mr. Connors. Then, turning to the matter in his mind he replied, “I don't know who's got them. If I did do yu think I'd be holdin' hands with myself?” “Nobody'd accuse yu of anything like that,” came from the window, accompanied by an overdone snicker. Mr. Connors flushed under his accumulated tan as he remembered the varied pleasures of Santa Fe, and he regarded the bronchos in anything but a pleasant state of mind. Mr. Cassidy slid through the window and approached his friend, looking as serious as he could. “Any tracks?” He inquired, as he glanced quickly over the ground to see for himself.