About sundown Starr rode in. Waring helped him from his horse. They shook hands in silence. The old cattleman knew at once why Waring had come, but he had no inkling of what was to follow. The cowboy, Pete, took care of the horses. A little later he clumped into the house and took a seat in a corner. Waring paid no attention to him, but talked with Starr about the grazing and the weather. Just before supper Starr introduced Waring. The cowboy winced at Waring's grip. "Heard tell of you from the boys," he said. "You want to ride over to our place," said Waring pleasantly. "Pat and I will show you some pretty land under fence." The cowboy's eyelids flickered. How could this man Waring speak of Pat that way, when he must know that Pat had been killed? Everybody knew that. Why didn't Mrs. Starr or Starr say something? But Starr was limping to the table, and Mrs. Starr was telling them to come and have supper. In the glow of the hanging lamp, Starr's lined, grizzled features were as unreadable as carved bronze. Waring, at his left, sat directly opposite the cowboy, Pete. The talk drifted from one subject to another, but no one mentioned the killing of Pat. Waring noted the cowboy's lack of appetite. "I looked over your saddle-stock this afternoon," said Waring. "Noticed you had a bay out there, white blaze on his nose. You don't want to sell that pony, do you?" "Oh, that's Pete's pony, Baldy," said Mrs. Starr. Starr glanced at Waring. The horse Baldy was good enough as cow-ponies went, but Waring had not ridden over to buy horses. "I aim to keep that cayuse," said Pete, swallowing hard. "But every man has his price,"--and Waring smiled. "I'll make my offer; a hundred, cash." "Not this evenin'," said the cowboy. Waring felt in the pocket of his flannel shirt. "I'll go you one better. I'll make it a hundred, cash, and this to boot." And his arm straightened. Pete started back. Waring's hand was on the table, the fingers closed. His fingers slowly opened, and a crumpled piece of paper lay in his palm. The cowboy's lips tightened. His eyes shifted from Waring to Starr, and then back again. Mrs. Starr, who could not understand the strange silence of the men, breathed hard and wiped her forehead with her apron. "Read it!" said Waring sharply. The cowboy took the piece of paper, and, spreading it out, glanced at it hurriedly. "This ain't for me," he asserted. "Did you ever see it before?" "This? No. What have I got to do with the sheriff's office?" "Pete," said Waring, drawing back his hand, "you had better read that note again." "Why, I--Pete can't read," said Mrs. Starr. "He can spell out printed reading some, but not writing." "Then how did you know this paper was from the sheriff's office?" queried Waring. The cowboy half rose. "Sit down!" thundered Waring. "Who sent you with a note to Pat last Wednesday?" "Who said anybody sent me?"