“I’d ruther not, Horace. I’ll make ’er somehow. It’s right white of you and the Old Gent. I won’t fergit it.” * * * * * The sheriff came in, an icy gust of wind and snow following him inside the lamplit, smoke hazed saloon. Dick Powell was a blunt statured man, husky, reddish of hair, with keen gray eyes and a drooping mustache. A good natured sort of fellow who was rated as a crackerjack cow hand. The grin on Dick’s mouth held a grim twist as his eyes swept the crowd with slow deliberation. “Belly up to the mahogany, Dick,” invited some one. Dick Powell did not seem to hear. A hush fell over the gathering. The fiddle in the hands of a Cree breed squeaked thinly and went silent. The bartender, from force of habit, reached for the sawed off shotgun under the bar. “Boys,” said the blocky sheriff, his voice heavy with sadness, rather than anger, “there’s a damn’ skunk amongst us tonight. When you boys rode in, I give you the run of the town. A man hates to think he has to watch boys that he’s worked with in the wet and cold and hot weather. I never thought a Circle C man would coyote on me.” “What the hell you drivin’ at, Dick?” asked Horace, his mild eyes glinting a little. “Some polecat knocked the depot man on the head and got off with five thousand dollars, that’s all.” “Where did that key pounder ever git five thousand bucks?” asked some one. “Payroll fer the Landusky mine. Five thousand in cash.” “Well,” drawled Cotton Eye, the nighthawk, “I reckon them mine folks will keep on runnin’ things just the same. Have a drink and fergit it.” “Whoever lifted that roll won’t have to worry none about forkin’ hay and openin’ water holes this winter,” chuckled another cowboy. “Dad burn the luck,” complained a third, “why didn’t I think about glaumin’ that payroll? Now I gotta break out of a early mornin’ from now till spring, shovelin’ hay into a lot o’ bawlin’ dogies. Some gents gits all the luck.” But for all their banter, they felt uneasy. Who among them had stolen that five thousand dollars? Oddly enough, no man blamed the thief. They rather admired his ingenuity. He had made a lucky haul. “Well, Dick,” said Horace slowly, “whoever done it, must ’a’ been blind drunk. You know every man in the outfit. There ain’t one rotten egg in the bunch. Say, how do you know it wa’n’t some tramp er some stray miner that done it?” “The depot man heard his spurs jingle, so he says,” growled the sheriff, “just before he got beefed. It was some cow hand. And outside of you boys there ain’t a cowboy in town. He heard them spurs.” “Got ary idee who might ’a’ done it?” asked Horace. “If I have, I’ll keep it to myself,” came the tart reply. “I look to you boys to lend me a hand and all I git is some horrawin’.” “No need to git hot about it,” grinned the wagon boss, toying with his drink. The sheriff ignored that remark and turned to his bartender.