“You know that ain’t so,” Johnny answered miserably. “Hobe and me has been bringin’ her little things nigh ten years.” “She was a child then. And you carryin’ her picture around. I won’t have it! Damn it, I won’t! My girl ain’t intended for no forty-dollar-a-month cowpunch. I want that picture.” Johnny shook his head. Less angry than he had been, he said: “I can’t give it to you. If Molly says she wants it, all right. I’ll give it to her. Ain’t no talk goin’ to make me change my mind about that.” “She’ll tell you quick enough.” Kent raised his voice to cry out her name. “No good doin’ that,” Johnny advised. “She ain’t here.” “I’ll find out whether she is or not. You git your stuff now. Take your presents with you, too.” Johnny had never been dismissed in this fashion. Tight-lipped, cheeks burning, he shook his head. “No,” he muttered, “I’d not do that.” “Well, I’ll take care of it, then.” And he caught up the harmonica and hurled it through the open window. “You git your stuff,” he thundered. The lust to tear this old man’s body with his hands surged in Johnny Dice. And yet, Molly was his daughter! The thought struck Johnny with a double significance. Jackson Kent had identified the dead man’s treasured keepsake. But why had that man carried Molly Kent’s photograph? Questions began stabbing at Johnny’s brain. Molly had had nothing to do with the man’s death. Hobe had given the old man an alibi. But there was a draw to this affair which could not be argued into nothingness. Molly was mysteriously away from home; Jackson here when he had left for Winnemucca, and always that picture of the girl in the dead man’s wallet to be explained. In a sort of daze Johnny got his blankets and other gear and placed them upon his saddle. Kent had roused Charlie Sam and set him to ringing the ranch-house bell. Only little Hughie answered the bell’s imperative summons. “Where’s Molly?” the girl’s father demanded. “Now, that’s a hard question to answer,” Hughie replied. “Never a word did she say to me. She got her horse herself this mornin’. ’Twa’n’t later than eight when she rode off. Charlie, here, must have talked to her.” “No talk,” squint-eyed Charlie Sam declared. “Me pack lunch. She damn big hurry.” “One of you must have seen whicha-way she went.” “Left here headin’ for Argenta,” Hughie exclaimed. “I was over there last night for the mail. Brought a letter for her. Mayhap she’s ridden out with the answer.” “She ain’t been in Argenta,” Kent said positively. “I—got off there myself, and borrowed a horse from Matt Pease. I’d ’a’ passed her on the road if she’d been headin’ there.” Argenta is a flag station half-way between Standing Rock and Winnemucca. The old man could easily enough have done as he claimed. But where could Molly have gone? If she had gone south, she must have come to the railroad. Surely she would not have bothered with lunch had she set out for Argenta or any neighboring ranch.