An hour later Four Bits pounded down the main street of Los Robles. Almost simultaneously Yeager brought the horse slithering to a halt and with one lithe swing of his body landed on the ground in front of the hotel porch. He ran up the steps and into the lobby. Behind his cage the night clerk was drowsing. "Anybody come into the hotel the last thirty minutes?" Yeager asked sharply. The clerk thought. "No, I reckon not. There was Mr. Simmons--but that was most an hour since." "Nobody else?" "No. Why?" The range-rider turned to the stairs, took them three at a time, and followed the corridor to Room 217. He hammered on the door with his fist. A sleepy voice wanted to know who was there. "It's Steve Yeager, Mr. Threewit. I wanta see you." "You've got all to-morrow to see me in, haven't you?" "My business won't wait." Grumbling, the producing director got up. Presently he opened the door and stood revealed in a dressing-gown over his pajamas. "What do you want, my anxious friend?" "We've been held up." "Held up!" A slow grin spread over Threewit's fat good-natured face. "Well, I'll bet Mr. Holdup didn't get a mint off you lads." "He didn't bother with us. It was the cattle he wanted. They've driven them across the line. At least, I reckon so." Threewit woke up instantly. "That's different. Unload your story, Yeager." The extra told it in six sentences. "Of course you didn't know any of the holdups. They were masked, you say?" "Yep." Steve's cool, steady eyes held those of the director. "But I've got a fool notion just the same that I do know one of them. Come with me to Harrison's room." "But--" "I'll do all the talking. Come along." "Now, see here, Yeager. Just because you and Harrison are at outs--" "Have I made any charges against him? Maybe I want to ask his advice. Maybe he could help us straighten out this thing. Got to pull together, haven't we?" A cynical light in the eyes of the young man contradicted his words. Reluctantly the director followed the extra to the room of the heavy on the third floor. Yeager knocked. He rapped again, and a third time. Drowsily a voice demanded what was wanted. Presently the door was flung open and Harrison stood blinking in the doorway, heavy-eyed and slumberous. "What's the row?" he growled, scowling at Yeager. "We were held up on the way from Yarnell's by rustlers. They drove the cattle away and left us tied up." "That any reason why you should wake me in the middle of the night? I ain't got your cattle under the bed." The heavy jaw of the prizefighter stood out saliently. Unconsciously his figure had drooped to the crouch of defense. His small black eyes were wary and defiant. The cowpuncher laughed, lightly and easily. "I'm only a kid. Mr. Threewit comes from the East and don't know anything about this rustling game. We thought of you right away." "What do you mean you thought of me?"