The man's inquiry rapped out smartly. But Scipio had no suspicion of anybody, and answered quite without hesitation. "I'm huntin' a man called James. You ain't seen him?" But the man countered his question with another. "What's your name?" he asked. "Scipio--and yours?" In the dying light the man's saturnine features seemed to relax for a moment into something like a smile. But he spoke at once. "Come right over," he invited. "Guess my name's Abe--Abe Conroy. I'm out chasin' cattle." And the fact that he finished up with a deliberate laugh had no meaning at all for his companion. Scipio gladly accepted the invitation, and, in response to the man's instructions, moved farther along the stream until he came to a shelving in the bank where his mare could climb down. He crossed over, letting his horse drink by the way, and a few moments later was at his new acquaintance's side. The stranger's mood seemed to have entirely changed for the better by the time Scipio came up. His smile was almost amiable, and his manner of speech was comparatively jocular. "So you're chasin' that crook, James," he said easily. "Queer, ain't it?" "What?" "Why, he's run off a bunch of our stock. Leastways, that's how I'm guessin'. I'm makin' up to his place right now to spy out things. I was jest waitin' fer the sun to go. Y'see we're organizin' a vigilance party to run--Say, I'd a notion fer a moment you was one of his gang." But Scipio disclaimed the honor promptly. "No. I just need to find him. I'm needin' it bad." "Wot fer?" For once the man-hunter hesitated. A quite unaccountable feeling gave him a moment's pause. But he finally answered frankly, as he always answered, with a simple directness that was just part of him. "He's stole my wife," he said, his eyes directly gazing into the other's face. "Gee, he's a low-down skunk," declared the other, with a curse. But the ironical light in his eyes quite escaped his companion's understanding. Scipio was full of his good fortune in falling in with a man who knew of James' whereabouts. A dozen questions sprang into his mind, but he contented himself with stating his intention. "I'll ride on with you," he said. "What, right up to James' lay-out?" "Sure. That's wher' I'm makin'." For a moment the man calling himself Conroy sat gazing out at the afterglow of the setting sun. His whole appearance was ill-favored enough to have aroused distrust in anybody but a man like Scipio. Now he seemed to be pondering a somewhat vexed question, and his brows were drawn together in a way that suggested anything but a clear purpose. But finally he seemed to make up his mind to a definite course. He spoke without turning to his companion, and perhaps it was for the purpose of hiding a lurking derisive smile.