When day broke, the two men left the trail and rode southward. They were tired, but they did not dare halt. In the middle of the afternoon, emerging from a draw, they saw the rails of the Great Western Railroad a hundred yards ahead. They rode westward along the line and reached Damson an hour later. Two saloons, a blacksmith shop, three houses, the station, and a water-tank, all huddling on the flanks of a railroad corral, made up the town of Damson. It was an unlovely place, and, to complete the effect, a dust-devil received them with open arms. "Looks like that corral had been used lately," observed Loudon between coughs. "Bunch o' pony stay dere tree-four day, two week ago, mabbeso," qualified Laguerre. They dismounted and entered the cracked and peeling station. The agent, a pale, flat-chested young man, responded readily to Loudon's inquiries. "Surely," he said, "about two weeks ago"--riffling duplicate way-bills--"yep, on the seventeenth, Bill Archer shipped ninety-five head Barred Twin Diamond hosses to Cram an' Docket in Piegan City. The two Maxson boys an' a feller they called Rudd was with Archer. Nope, no trouble at all. Eastbound? She's five hours late. Due maybe in an hour an' a half if she don't lose some more. Yep, I'll set the board against her." When Mr. Cram, senior member of the great horse-dealing firm of Cram & Docket, came down to his office in the morning, Tom Loudon was sitting on the office-steps, an expression of keenest satisfaction on his sunburnt, cinder-grimed face. He had spent the greater part of the preceding two hours strolling among the corrals of Cram & Docket. Mr. Cram acknowledged by a curt nod the greeting of Loudon. "I have all the men I can use," began Mr. Cram, gruffly, "and----" "T'sall right," interrupted Loudon. "I ain't needin' a job this mornin'. I just thought I'd tell yuh that there's ninety-five head o' stolen hosses in number eight corral." "Wha-what?" gasped Mr. Cram. "Hurts, don't it? Shouldn't wonder. Yes, sir, them ninety-five Barred Twin Diamonds yuh bought offen Bill Archer o' Marysville an' shipped from Damson was all stole from Scotty Mackenzie's Flying M ranch up north near Paradise Bend, in the Dogsoldier valley." "Why--why--I don't understand," stuttered Mr. Cram. "I don't believe a word of it." Mr. Cram became suddenly aware of the exceeding chilliness in a pair of gray eyes. "Meanin' how?" queried Loudon, softly. "Well, of course, I believe you're acting in good faith, but---- Oh, come inside." "No need. My train's due in thirty minutes. Scotty Mackenzie an' his foreman Doubleday will come down here an' prove ownership in about a week or so." "But I've just sold that bunch to a firm in Omaha!"