* * * * * Something hot scalded Buck Bell’s heart as the rider came alongside. Had the sheriff somehow found him out? Buck almost hoped so. But Powell grinned as easy greeting. He was warmly clad in chaps, overshoes and a buffalo coat. The stock of a carbine jutted from his saddle scabbard. “You look fer all the world like a bull that’s been whipped outa the herd, Bell. Here, see what this’ll do to you.” He passed over a quart of whisky. They drank together and rode on with the storm. “Trailin’ that gent that done the robbery, Dick?” The sheriff grunted into his fur collar. “Trailin’ hell! Whoever done it didn’t leave a sign. But mark my words, Bell, he’ll give hisself away.” “How?” Buck Bell slapped his cold hands against the slicker to beat the blood into circulation. “Here, take these.” The sheriff pulled a pair of yarn mitts from his pocket. “I brung along an extra pair. The missus knit ’em.” Buck pulled on the red mittens, mumbling his gratitude. “How?” The sheriff replied to his question. “Well, it’s thisaway, Bell. I know every man that was in town that night. I know where each man will be workin’ this winter. Horace gimme their names and what camps they’d be at. I wired fer the serial number of them stolen banknotes. When that money begins goin’ into circulation, I’ll nab my man. Er if ary man quits this range, I’ll be follerin’ him. I’ll have the other towns posted. He’s corralled.” The sheriff consulted a little book. “Here’s the list. Stuart and Contway at Big Warm. Howe and Smith at Little Warm. You and Cotton Eye at Rocky Point, down on the Missouri. And so on.” He shoved the book back into his pocket. Buck’s head was lowered as he fumbled with clumsy hands at a witch’s knot in his horse’s mane. His brain was working swiftly. Why had Horace lied? Why had the wagon boss told the sheriff that he, Buck Bell, was going into a line camp at Rocky Point? “I wouldn’t be tellin’ this to everybody, understand,” continued the sheriff. “I know I kin trust you, Bell.” If the sheriff had taken a sharp knife and struck the cowpuncher in the back he could not have hurt Buck Bell more than he did when he spoke those words. They rode on in silence. Buck was chilled to the bone by the wind; it bit through his inadequate clothing. Dick urged the bottle on him to warm his blood. “I got some stuff that’ll be driftin’ with the storms this winter, Bell. I spoke to the Old Gent about it. He said it’d be all right if you boys kinda kept an eye on ’em and feed a few if need be.” “Shore,” mumbled Buck. “Shore thing.” Their trails parted a little farther on. The sheriff made Buck take his overshoes and the bottle. “I’ll be back home in a couple o’ hours. Don’t be a damn’ fool, Bell. So long. Good luck, old-timer. See you next spring when the chinook melts you outa the bad lands.”