“Was. Found him now,” Mr. Manley answered shortly. “I want to talk to you. Do you know Gilly Froud?” “Suppose I do?” the puncher answered insolently. “This much. I think you know something about my broncs that were stolen from the hitchin’ rail out there a while ago.” Mr. Manley looked at the man keenly. “Yea?” The puncher drew a sack of tobacco and cigarette papers from his shirt pocket. Deftly he rolled a cigarette and applied a match to it. “Well, suppose I do?” he asked, blowing out a cloud of smoke. His right hand slid inside his heavy shirt and toward his left armpit. Mr. Manley saw the motion and his own hand flashed down to his side. Suddenly there was a wild yell behind him, and an empty bottle whizzed past his head. The barkeeper, seeing Mr. Manley going for his gun, had picked up the bottle and aimed for the ranchman’s head. Swift as light Mr. Manley turned. His gun leaped from its holster, and he brought down the butt end on the barkeeper’s wrist. The rascal’s right arm went limp. He uttered another yell and sank back in alarm. At that moment the door burst open, and Pop, followed by Roy and Teddy, leaped into the room. The barkeeper bent to pick up a bottle with his left hand, but before he could reach it Roy kicked it into the corner and shoved his revolver into the man’s ribs. Teddy, seeing that his father was uninjured, made a dash for the man in the checkered shirt. But the lad was too late. The puncher, realizing the turn affairs had taken, disappeared through the side door, slamming it behind him. When Teddy reached it and flung it open, the man was gone. It would be useless, as well as foolhardly, to follow down that dark passageway upon which the door gave entrance. Best to hunt for the fellow outside the place, or to hope Gus and Nick, who had waited at the front of the restaurant, had seen and stopped him. Teddy turned back. “You all right, Dad?” Roy and Teddy asked in almost the same breath. “All right, boys,” their father answered cheerfully. “He never touched me.” “What’ll we do with this varmint, boss?” Pop asked, poking the barkeeper with the barrel of his gun. “I cracked him one on the wrist,” Mr. Manley said. “Guess we’ll let him alone, Pop. He won’t do no harm for a long while yet. Say, where’d that other hombre get to?” “He ducked out,” Teddy answered. “Went through a side door. I didn’t chase him, because I didn’t know where he’d gone. I thought maybe Nick or Gus would spot him.” “Maybe. I hope so. That bucker knows something about our ponies, or I’m a ring-tailed doodlebug. Pop, quit pokin’ that geezer with your gun. Hey, you--” this to the “geezer” sharply, “better have that arm bandaged, or it’ll go bad on you.” This was characteristic of Bardwell Manley--solicitous even of a man who had tried to attack him from the back. “Boss, we better get out of here,” Pop declared. “If you want to hunt them broncs, we ought to get goin’.”