“Anything new, Matson?” demanded a young cow-puncher. “Don’t forget we’ve been off the map ’most three weeks. Who’s eloped, absconded, married, divorced, or otherwise played billiards with the Ten Commandments?” Matson sat down tailor fashion and accepted the steak, bread, and coffee offered him. “The only news on tap when I left town was that the Limited got in on time—yesterday. Few will believe it, but it’s an honest-to-goodness fact. We had it sworn to before a notary.” CHAPTER XV A HOT TRAIL IT happened that Sheriff Matson was in the hills on official business and slept at Bovier’s Camp the night of the sheep raid. He was by custom an early riser. The sky was faintly pink with the warning of a coming sun when he stepped out of the house to wash in the tin basin outside the kitchen. As he dried his face on the roller towel there came to him the sound of dragging steps and laboured breathing. Matson turned. A pallid little man sank down on the step and buried his face in his hands. “What’s up?” demanded the officer. The panting man lifted to him eyes which still mirrored the fear of death. “They—they’ve killed Tait and Gilroy.” “Who?” “Raiders.” “When?” “This morning—two hours ago.” A shiver shook the fellow like a heavy chill. “My God—it was awful!” he gasped. The sheriff let fall a strong brown hand on his shoulder. “Tell me about it, Purdy. You were there at the time?” The man nodded assent. He swallowed a lump in his dry throat and explained: “I been herding for Tait. We bedded at Bald Knob last night. Joe was aiming to go to Thunder Mountain. They—shot up the camp and killed Tait and Gilroy. Jim and me just escaped. We got separated in the brush.” “Just where was the camp?” “Right at the foot of Bald Knob.” “Did you recognize any of the raiders?” “No. They wore masks.” “How many were there?” “About twenty; maybe twenty-five.” “You’re sure they killed Tait and Gilroy?” “Don’t I tell you I saw them dead?” quavered the unstrung man with weak irritability. The cool, hard eyes of the sheriff narrowed to slits. Matson belonged to the class of frontier man hunter which sleeps on the trail of a criminal until he is captured. Not hardship nor discouragement nor friendship would stand in his way. He had a fondness for his work that amounted to a passion and an uncanny capacity for it. With the news that had just come to him he was a changed man. The careless good nature was sponged from his face. His features seemed to have sharpened. His body had grown tense like a coiled spring. There was in his motions the lithe wariness of the panther stalking its prey for the kill. A few more sharp, incisive questions told him all Purdy knew. He ordered his horse to be saddled and asked for breakfast at once. Meanwhile he got Wagon Wheel on the long-distance, and rang his deputy up from sleep.