“Well, Joe,” said he, turning to McCoyne, who stood near, “it seems like the law of habeas corpus hasn’t got quite as far west as the Twin Livery Barn. If it has I’ll suspend habeas corpus in this town until Captain McMasters gets his prisoner out of town and headed south.” [Illustration: _A Paramount Picture._ _North of 36._ “HANDS OFF, RUDABAUGH!” ROARS BIG JIM.] CHAPTER XLVI FAIR EXCHANGE ALL day alone, a stranger, almost a prisoner in Lou Gore’s little room, Taisie Lockhart for once in her life was now almost in a condition of hysteria. The strain and stress of the long trail journey, the anxiety of her hazard of fortunes, the relaxation of success—and now all these scenes and sounds of violence in combination so worked upon her worn nerves that she no longer was herself. Lou Gore was much put to it to comfort her, and, indeed, was glad enough to welcome Jim Nabours and the boy Cinquo, who later in the evening came in to tell the news of the affair at the Silver Moon. These two paused in the outer room, not daring to ask once more to see their mistress. “You tell her, ma’am,” said Jim Nabours. “Tell her we got Rudabaugh safe and his gang busted wide open—three of them killed. Dan McMasters, he taken Rudabaugh prisoner hisself in a fair stand-up fight.” “Well, all right, all right,” responded Lou Gore; “I’ll tell her anything. Nobody in town has had any supper yet. We can’t have no dance now. This is the beatingest Fourth of July ever I did see. I declare, you cowboys give me more trouble than my gamblers. “I don’t want to be nasty to you,” she went on. “But you’ve got to keep out of my kitchen. Here, take a couple of keys and go on upstairs and go to bed. I declare, I am right tired my own self.” Meekly obedient, although reluctant not to see the mistress of Del Sol before he slept, Jim Nabours clumsily climbed the stairs, the boy close at his heels. “What’s wrong, Mister Jim?” asked Cinquo solicitously. “Ain’t we sold out all right?” “Yes,” said his foreman gruffly. “We’ve won out on the cows. But we’ve lost out on the land. You know that trunk?” “Shore. I do. It was always getting in the road everywheres.” “It won’t be no more! It’s gone—lost—stole. It was worth ten times as much as all our cows. Old Rudabaugh knows where it is, but he ain’t so apt to tell.” As he spoke he flung open the door of a room, one of many precisely alike on either side of the upper hall. But he paused. “Hello!” said he. “There’s some one in here now, and he’s gone to bed.” The bed indeed was occupied—occupied by a long and motionless figure, a pillow slip drawn across his face, the hands folded on the breast. “I’ll be——” Jim Nabours halted as something caught his eye. He stepped forward, drew back the face covering. “Why, it’s Cal Dalhart!” said he. “He’s dead all right—but they done told me he was buried! McCoyne told me he seen it done hisself!”