“I believe you signed an affidavit for a man named Waddell, in regard to the Johnnywater outfit. I’d like to have a few minutes’ talk with you.” “Why, shore!” Monty Girard glanced down at the mail bag, stepped past Gary and tossed the bag into the back of his car. “Your name’s Connolly, I guess. Going out to Johnnywater?” Gary had not thought of friendliness toward any man connected with the Johnnywater transaction; yet friendliness was the keynote of Monty Girard’s personality. The squinty wrinkles around his young blue eyes were not all caused by facing wind and sun; laughter lines were there, plenty of them. His voice, that suggested years spent in the southwest where men speak in easy, drawling tones, caressing in their softness, was friendliness itself; as was his quick smile, disclosing teeth as white and even as Gary himself could boast. In spite of himself, Gary’s hostility lost its edge. “If you haven’t got your own car, you’re welcome to ride out with me, Mr. Connolly. I’m going within fifteen miles of Johnnywater, and I can take yuh-all over as well as not.” Gary grinned relentingly. “I came over to see how much of that outfit was faked,” he said. “I’m not the buyer, but I have full authority to act for Pat Connolly. The deal was made rather--er--impulsively, and it is unfortunate that the buyer was unable to get over and see the place before closing the deal. Waddell has gone East, I hear. But you swore that things were as represented in the deal.” Monty Girard gave him one searching look from under the brim of his dusty, gray Stetson range hat. He looked down, absently reaching out a booted foot to shake a front wheel of his Ford. “What I swore to was straight goods, all right. I figured that if Mr. Connolly was satisfied with the deal as it stood, it was no put-in of mine. I don’t know of a thing that was misrepresented. Not if a man knows this country and knows what to expect.” “Now we’re coming to the point, I think.” Gary felt oddly that here was a man who would understand his position and perhaps sympathize with the task he had set himself to accomplish. Monty Girard hesitated, looking at him inquiringly before he glanced up and down the street. “Say, mister----” “Marshall. Pardon me. Gary Marshall’s my name.” “Well, Mr. Marshall, it’s like this. I’m just in off a hundred-and-forty-mile drive--and it shore is hot from here to Indian. If you don’t mind helpin’ me hunt a cool spot, we’ll have a near beer or something and talk this thing over.” Over their near beer Gary found the man he had intended to lick even more disarming. Monty Girard kept looking at him with covert intentness.