"Can't be did, Telescope. We've got to get him the right way, so the folks o' Sunset an' Fort Creek'll know just why he went. That goes for his outfit an' Block an' his deputies, too. They're all in it up to their belts. They've made Fort Creek County what it is--a place where a straight gent has to watch himself an' what's around him all the time. Shorty Simms killed the Sheriff o' Sunset, but Blakely an' the 88 made the killin' possible. Oh, what's the use? I'm goin' to sleep." But Loudon did not go to sleep at once. He had too much on his mind. From Blakely and the 88 his perplexed thoughts shifted to Kate Saltoun and the sinful ease with which she had made a fool of him; he had trusted her, and she had betrayed him. The daughter of a ranchman, she had flouted the law of the range. Given the thief money, too. It was almost incredible. Idiot that he was, to believe for an instant that she loved him! Knowing her of old, it served him right, he told himself. He thanked Heaven that he did not love her, had not loved her since that day in the Bar S kitchen. Quite naturally then, since he was so absolutely sure of himself and his emotions, he wondered how Rudd had had the luck to save Kate's life. He wished that it had been himself, in order that he might have made some small return for services rendered. She had done a great deal for him at the Bend. She had simplified a most complex situation by bringing to his assistance Hockling and Red Kane. He undoubtedly owed a lot to Kate. Nevertheless, he assured himself that her conduct in the matter of Rudd's escape had squared the account. Of course it had. And he was glad of it. For, under the circumstances, he would never have to see her again. The Spinning Sister heard, and smiled--and Loudon fell asleep. "Hey, Tom! Wake up!" It was Jack Richie's voice that shouted, and it was Jack Richie's hand that shook Loudon awake. "Whatsa matter?" Loudon opened sleepy eyes. "Yore hoss is outside. Yore hoss, Ranger, an'----" Jack Richie was almost overset by the blanket-shedding cyclone that whirled out of bed and through the doorway. In front of the ranch house stood Ranger, surrounded by Richie's amazed and conjecturing cowboys. The horse raised his wise head, cocked his ears, and nickered softly at Loudon's approach. "It's him," grinned Loudon. "It's the little hoss. Well, fellah, you old tiger-eye!" He rubbed the white spot on Ranger's nose. The horse nipped his fingers with soft lips. "Found him tied to the post out back o' the wagon shed," volunteered the cook. "I thought I was seein' things." "Funny he didn't whinner," said Loudon. "There was a flour-sack over his head," explained the cook. "Here it is." "That don't tell me nothin'," Loudon said. "Everybody uses Triple X. An' that hackamore could be just anybody's, too. Whoever brought him shore walked in the water."