Muller made a lightning about-face. He snapped to attention facing the captain. "And what are you doing here, Sergeant?" "Prisoner bein’ fed, sir!" Muller reported stolidly. "And there is no need for conversation. Dismissed, Sergeant!" The captain watched Muller leave before he turned once more to Drew. "Kirby, do you know the penalty for horse stealing in this country?" he snapped. "Yes." "Then you must know just what you have to face." "Captain ..." Drew began slowly, wanting to make his words just right. There was no reason to let Bayliss think he could simply ride right over his prisoner. On the other hand Muller’s advice had been good; it would be dangerous to antagonize the officer. "I had nothing to do with those stolen horses. We found them, yes, but they were already in the canyon. And there were two men guardin’ them—up on the ridge. They must have cleared out when your patrol rode in, but they were there the night before." "You saw them?" "No, our scout did." "What scout—that Indian who got away with your partner? I heard rumors that Kitchell had links with bronco Apaches, but I didn’t believe any white man could stoop so low." "That Indian"—Drew felt as if he were walking a very narrow mountain ledge in the dark, with a drop straight down to the middle of the world on one side—"was a Pima, one of the Stronghold scouts." "So—Hunt Rennie _did_ know about those horses!" Bayliss pounced. "He did not! He sent us to the mustanger camp with a message, and the Pima rode scout for us. It’s a regular order on the Range—take one of the Pimas if you are goin’ any distance from where you can fort up. You can find out that’s true easily enough." Drew was striving to keep a reasonable tone, to find an answer which _must_ pierce through Bayliss’ rancor. After all, Bayliss could not have held his present rank and station so long and been all hot-headed plunger. "What was this so-important message Rennie had to have delivered to a camp of Mex mustangers?" Bayliss bored in. Even in the lantern’s restricted light Drew could see the flush darkening the other’s face. "They are havin’ trouble with a wild stud—a killer. Mr. Rennie wants him killed, quick. He sent the two of us out to help—thought with more hands it could be done." "Kirby!" Bayliss’ fists were on his hips, his head pushed forward from his shoulders until his sun-peeled face was only inches away from the bars between them. "Do I look like a stupid man, a man to be fed stories? You ride into town on a blooded stud, with a mare of like breeding, and a belt loaded down with gold. You give out that you served with Forrest—Forrest, a looting guerrilla and a murdering butcher! You’ve heard of Fort Pillow, Kirby? That’s what decent men remember when anyone says ’Forrest’ in their hearing! Only you can’t even prove you were one of that gang of raiders, either, can you? Now I’ll tell you just who and what you are.