“By jiminy by jinks, if it ain’t the smart-aleck hobo engineer,” the cattleman announced to himself. “Is he alive?” asked Tug, nodding toward the man on the floor. “Be all right in a li’l’ while. His eyes flickered when I gave him a drink. How’d you come here, anyhow?” “Got lost in the storm. He played out. Had to drag him.” Tug rubbed his hands together to restore circulation. “Mean you got lost an’ just happened in here?” “Yes.” “Hmp! Better be born lucky than with brains, I’ll say. What were you doin’ out in the blizzard? Where you headed for?” “I was taking him to Wild Horse--to the sheriff.” A mask dropped over the eyes of the little cattleman. “What for? What’s he been doin’?” “He’s wanted for shooting Mr. Reed and firing his wheatfield.” “You been appointed deputy sheriff since you took to playin’ good?” “And for other things,” the engineer added, as though Prowers’s sneer had not been uttered. “Meanin’ which?” “Kidnapping Reed’s little girl.” “No proof of that a-tall. Anything more?” The eyes of the two met and grew chill. Hollister knew that the rancher was feeling out the ground. He wanted to find out what had taken place to-day. “What more could there be?” Tug asked quietly. Neither relaxed the rigor of his gaze. In the light-blue orbs of the older was an expression cold and cruel, almost unhuman, indefinably menacing. “Claims I was tryin’ to blow up his mine.” The voice came from behind Prowers. It was faint and querulous. “Say, I’m froze up inside. Gimme a drink, Jake.” Prowers passed the bottle over. He continued to look at the uninvited guest who knew too much. “Howcome you to get that notion about him blowin’ up yore tunnel?” he asked. “Caught him at it. Dragged him back and made him show where he had put the sticks of powder,” Hollister answered grimly. “You interested in this, Mr. Prowers?” “Some. Why not? Got to be neighborly, haven’t I?” The high voice had fallen to a soft purr. It came to Hollister, with a cold swift patter of mice feet down his spine, that he was in deadly danger. Nobody knew he was here, except these two men. Cig had only to give it out that they had become separated in the blizzard. They could, unless he was able to protect himself, murder him and dispose of the body in entire safety. If reports were true, Prowers was an adept at that kind of sinister business. Tug had, of course, a revolver, but he knew that the cattleman could beat him to the draw whenever he chose. The old man was a famous shot. He would take his time. He would make sure before he struck. The blow would fall when his victim’s wariness relaxed, at the moment when he was least expecting it.