Banjo was under obligation to Macdonald for no smaller matter than his life, the homesteader having rescued him from drowning the past spring when the musician, heading for Chadron's after playing for a dance, had mistaken the river for the road and stubbornly urged his horse into it. On that occasion Banjo's wits had been mixed with liquor, but his sense of gratitude had been perfectly clear ever since. Macdonald's door was the only one in the nesters' colony that stress or friendship ever had constrained him to enter. Even as it was, with all the big debt of gratitude owing, his intimacy with a man who had opened an irrigation ditch was a thing of which he did not boast abroad. Banjo made but a night's stop of it with Macdonald. Early in the morning he was in the saddle again, with a dance ahead of him to play for that night at a ranch twenty miles or more away. He lingered a little after shaking hands with his host, trying the violin case as if to see that it was secure, and fidgeting in his saddle, and holding back on the start. Macdonald could see that there was something unsaid in the little man's mind which gave him an uneasiness, like indigestion. "What is it, Banjo?" he asked, to let it be known that he understood. "Mac, did you ever hear tell of a feller named Mark Thorn?" Banjo inquired, looking about him with fearful caution, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. "Yes, I've heard of him." "Well, he's in this country." "Are you sure about that, Banjo?" Macdonald's face was troubled; he moved nearer the musician as he made the inquiry, and laid his hand on his arm. "He's here. He's the feller you've got to watch out for. He cut acrosst the road yisterday afternoon when I was comin' down here, and when he seen me he stopped, for I used to know him up north and he knew it wasn't no use to try to duck and hide his murderin' face from me. He told me he was ranchin' up in Montany, and he'd come down here to collect some money Chadron owed him on an old bill." "Pretty slim kind of a story. But he's here to collect money from Chadron, all right, and give him value received. What kind of a looking man is he?" "He's long and lean, like a rail, with a kind of a bend in him when he walks, and the under lid of his left eye drawed like you'd pulled it down and stuck a tack in it. He's wearin' a cap, and he's kind of whiskered up, like he'd been layin' out some time." "I'd know him," Macdonald nodded. "You couldn't miss him in a thousand, Mac. Well, I must be rackin' along." Banjo scarcely had passed out of sight when three horsemen came galloping to Macdonald's gate. They brought news of a fresh tragedy, and that in the immediate neighborhood. A boy had been shot down that morning while doing chores on a homestead a little way across the river. He was the son of one of the men on the death-list, and these men, the father among them, had come to enlist Macdonald's aid in running down the slayer.