Ross hesitated, glanced at the waiting clerk, glanced at the suspicious face of the sheriff and then, with a shaking hand, wrote: "Ross Grant, Junior," and laid the pen down. The sheriff drew the register toward him with a slowly purpling face. "That's my name," declared Ross. He spoke defensively, yet with a ring of exultation in his voice. "You haven't asked me for it before." The blood dropped out of the sheriff's face. The shivers ran down Ross's spine at the anger in his face. "What does this mean, you cub!" the sheriff demanded furiously. "It means that I want to talk to Leslie Jones' father before he sees Leslie," announced Ross boldly, "so I came with you. There was nothing to prevent my coming." A hand fell on the sheriff's shoulder. Sandy McKenzie stood at Ross's elbow. Sandy's face wore a curiously baffled expression, but he nodded to Ross in much his usual nonchalant manner. "Hello, Doc, you here? Didn't expect to see you. How'd you leave Leslie Jones?" There was an emphasis on the last name which Ross did not notice. Neither did he notice the shrewd observation in the questioner's eyes. "I left him busy," the boy returned glibly, "and so did the sheriff!" Once more the blood rushed into the sheriff's face, and in unselected language he had begun to tell Ross what he thought of him, when Sandy succeeded in drawing him aside and leading him into the barroom, followed by Waymart and a group that the conversation had attracted. After they had disappeared, Ross turned to the clerk. "Is Mr. Jones stopping here?" he asked confidently. "Nope," responded the clerk, leaning an elbow on the ledger. "What was it you put over the sheriff?" "Not here!" Ross exclaimed, not hearing the question. "Did you understand the name? I want to see Mr. Jones." In his anxiety he raised his voice. The clerk grinned. "There ain't no man here by the name of Jones." "But there must be," Ross insisted stupidly. "There's got to be! This is the only hotel in town, isn't it?" "Yep," grinned the clerk. "It's the original Waldorf-Astory all right. Where does this here Jones hail from?" "Omaha." There was unlimited dismay in Ross's tone. "Hain't got any one from Omaha here, and hain't had this winter." Ross pulled the register toward him and began to scan the names. Instantly he exclaimed, "Bully! Steele. I'd forgotten him. I'll see----" "Not this trip!" the clerk interrupted lazily. "Ye must 'a' met Steele. He went back on the stage to-night." "Leonard, then. He's here, isn't he?" "Nope," replied the clerk nonchalantly. "He's in Basin. Home's there, ye know." Baffled, perplexed, Ross turned again to the register. The clerk had told the truth. There had been no guest entered from Omaha or any place further away than Montana in weeks. "See here," he exclaimed finally, "do you know anything about Leslie Jones, that went over to Meadow Creek with a man named Wilson a few weeks ago?"